
/ 







J LIBRARY OF CONGRESS ,1 
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! t&ttr I 

| UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. J 



THE 



HfttiU ; 



A SERIES OF 



MISCELLANEOUS 

ESSAYS. 



ADDWYN I DDRAGON 
DDAWN Y DERWYDDON, 



GLASGOW: 

PRINTED BY ROBERT CHAPMAN 
1812. 



.f\ 2.8+7! 7 



■:. :. 



CONTENTS. 

No. I. The Seer of Glen-Myvyr, a tale, illustrative of 
ancient lore, and diversified by the incidents 
of a narrative. ~~~~~~~,~~~~v~»~~~%~3 
17. On the transitory nature of wealth and gran- 
deur, exemplified by the fate of Don Em- 
manuel de Souza.~+™.~~.~*~+~~^^„15 

III. On early rising, containing stanzas descriptive 

of the morning, w^^^w**,**^ — ~~~20 

IV. The Heir ofStrath-Gartney, a metrical tale. 25 

V. Evaline ; or, the "pernicious effects of too much 

indulgence to children. .*~*~~~~~~~~,^4'1 

VI. Biographical sketch of the life and character of 

Hamlet prince of Denmark. ~v~v~~~~~~49 

VII. Account of some noxious witids — the Simoom, 

Kamsiti,Harmattan,Samiel, andSirrocco. 56 

VIII. Versification of the XXXIV. and XXXV 
Chapters of Isaiah, with preliminary obser- 
vations, ^^.^v^^^^ w^^~-^»^~~~~*~».>~6 6 

IX. Delineation of Humour, illustrated by a tale. 74< 
Y. Definition of Courage, which, with patience, 

forbearance, and constancy or resolution, 
forms that generous virtue denominated For- 
titude or Magnanimity. ^ W v~»~~~«..~~~81 
XI. Eugene and Caroline ; or, the evil consequences 
of dissimulation and insincerity.* 91 



IV CONTENTS. 

No. XII. On the rites of Buddha, the Ceylonese Mes- 
siah, with notices of the priests who admin- 
ister in the religion of that country. ~«^103 

XIII. A topographic description of Palmyra, a 
biographical account of Odenatus, and a 
narrative of the life and actions ofZenobia, 
Queen of the East ; with a sketch of the tri- 
umph of Aurelian, her conquer or. ww «l 1 1 

XIV. On governing the Passio?is, illustrated by the 

story of Alexander and Clitus. v^^.^^.^132 

XV. Description of the Altgrande, a mountain tor- 

rent which falls into Cromarty Bay. ,^.141 

XVI. On the Tulipomania ; or, the rugefor varie- 

ties oftidips. ~~~~~~~~~~*^.~~,~~vl47 

XVII. On the future abode of the blessed, including 
descriptions of the Classic Elysium, of the 
Valhalla of the Scandinavians, and of the 
Flath-Innis or Noble Isle of the Celtic na- 
tions.~~„*„ — ~~~~~^.~,~~ w ,~wwvl 6 1 

XVIII Letter of Mary, Queen of Scots, to Queen 
Elizabeth, written in November 1582, trans- 
lated from the original French. ~~,~ M .,^177 

XIX. On the advantages of literary knowledge in 

every department of society. ~~~~,~~«~J 97 

XX. On the moral effect of contemplating the works 

of the Creator, particularly the stars and 
other heavenly bodies.~~~~~~~~~~~2l0 

XXI. On the depravity and mischievoiis tendency of 
Fortune- Telling. „„ ^^^ ~~~v*~230 



THE DEUID. 



No, I. 

n With sudden horror rock'd the trembling ground, 
And disttfnt thunder shook the vast profound, 
When from a cave a venerable form 
Stalk'd forth, announced by the preluding storm. 
About his limbs a snowy garment roll'd, 
Floats to the wind in many an ample fold ; 
His brow serene a rich tiara bound, 
And loose his silver tresses stream'd around. 
In his right hand a golden harp declared 
The sacred function of the Druid Bard." 

Pye's Alfred, P. III. v. 143—152. 

W HEN the stranger is solicitous to obtain a fa- 
vourable reception from that part of society among 
whom he aspires to be conversant, it is necessary that 
his first appearance be divested of the character of in- 
trusion by the recommendations of friendship, or by an 
ingenuous account of himself, accompanied by a cand- 
id avowal of his intentions. Mankind, indeed, are 
generally impressed with a desire of knowing something 
of those who present themselves to their notice, and 
propriety has rendered it necessary that an attempt 

VOL. I. A 



2 INTRODUCTION. NO. 

should be made to gratify so laudable a curiosity. On 
the present occasion, therefore, a prefatory address will 
be expected. 

The Druid observes, with regret, that oblivion 
has nearly obliterated every memorial of his Order, 
even in the land consecrated, of yore, by the celebra- 
tion of their ancient rites. He also feels that he is un- 
known among the progeny of a people, who reverenced 
his forefathers as the faithful instructors that incul- 
cated those sublime lessons which elucidate the ori- 
gin of being, the economy and organization of objects, 
the duties of society, and the rules and institutions af- 
fecting the interests and independency of Man. He 
honestly avows, however, that he is most desirous of ac- 
quiring the attention of his compatriots to the subjects 
of his diversified studies, while he pledges himself that 
his utmost efforts shall be exerted to win their appro- 
bation, support, and esteem. But he will leave the 
tendency of his simple doctrines to unfold the motives 
which have induced him to renounce the obscurity of 
a peaceful seclusion, and to develope the views by wliich 
he has been prompted to assume a character that will 
lead him to encourage and applaud the actions of the 
virtuous, and to point out, to disapprobation and infamy, 
the conduct of the worthless and the bad. To accom- 
plish this purpose, he will endeavour to maintain an 
appropriate character, and this will include that of a 
moralist, a monitor, and a minstrel. He will, there- 
fore, offer to the attention of the public, as the subject 
of the present theme, 



THE RESPONSE 



SEER OF GLEN-MYVYR. 

Gwvthon was the son of Doeth, presider in the 
circle of Bel * In Glen-My vyr, within the bosom of 
the Caledonian hills, was raised the mystic temple of 
the Divinity, and the abode of the sage stood in an ad- 
jacent dale. On a green sloping eminence, a circle of 
gray stones marked out the consecrated ground. It 
was surrounded with lofty oaks, the thick foliage of 
which threw around it a solemn shade. Not distant 
were heard the murmurs of a mountain stream. The 
spot was wild and sequestered ; but it was lovely, in- 
teresting, and serene. It solemnized the soul, and fos- 
tered contemplation. Youth delighted to ramble amid 
its shadowy glens, and age to meditate upon the knot- 
ted roots of its moss-grown trees, or in the peaceful 
retreats of its secluded caves. 

In this solitary haunt of peace and innocence, 
the childhood of Gwython passed away. His youth 
was a gently-flowing stream of happiness and tranquil- 
lity. It was the season of lore and of glee. The 
initiatory rites of Barthrin -J-, at length, gave to his 

* Bel. — Many of the primitive nations directed their adorations to 
the Supreme Being, under the name Bel, Beli, or Baal, in honour of 
whom they observed the first of May as a high festival. 

f Barthrin denominates the mysteries of Bardism, or the grada- 
tions of tuition preparative to the confirmation of a novice in the char- 
acter of an approved Bard. 

A 2 



4 THE SEER OF NO. 

eager hands the harp of melodious song. Upon 
its strings soon trilled the warblings of joy, while 
his swelling voice arose in praise of the chiefs of Al- 
ban. The minstrelsy of valour, of patriotism, and 
of truth were the delight of his rising years ; and it 
became the charm and the solace of his ripening age. 
With the burst of day would his matin hymns melt a- 
mong the mountain echoes; and, as the dew, his grate- 
ful strains steal symphonious to those of the nightin- 
gale, lone harbinger of eve, and the mellow harmonist 
of the star-bright hour. 

It was even. The sun was sinking in the west ; 
and his ruddy beams were flitting on the darkening 
hills. The breeze was playful and cool, and scented by 
the fragrance of flowers. Genial was the air, and sweet, 
exhilarating the spirits, while health sported on the 
wings of the gale. Upon the rustling boughs were 
perched the songsters of the wood ; and echo, in melo- 
dious responses, replied to their warbles of love. The 
fields were loaded with the bounty of Nature, and 
richly variegated by the golden tints of autumn. The 
scene was all-grateful and charming, when the son of 
Doeth was entering the Vale of Myvyr. Slowly he 
penetrated into the thicket of a silvan dell, and traced 
the secret windings of his dusky path. Pensive and 
serene, he strode along, in silence, ruminating on the 
changes of things and of man. When he pondered the 
past he admired, and when he reviewed the scenes of 
departed times, he was delighted, as with the delusive 
pictures of a morning dream. 



1, GLEWMYVYR. 5 

On the margin of a murmuring brook he beheld a 
stone, gray with age. It was the Stone of Celvan, the 
secret dweller, renowned afar for his wisdom in the 
days of a distant age. He brushed the dew from its 
hoary sides. He sat down. Being soon lulled into 
solemn musing by the melody of the grove and the 
tinkling of the crystal rill, he sunk into contemplation, 
forgetful of all around him. He reflected on the brevi- 
ty and vicissitudes of human life. A cloud of dubious 
sadness played upon his brow. His breast heaved with 
emotion. He sighed. Raising an eye of devotion, with 
a mien of reverence, he exclaimed, " Father of Nature ! 
give me the power of judging aright,— grant me the 
knowledge of things !"" 

The sound of his voice had not died among the 
rocks, when a beam of light burst through the trees of 
the wood ; and a form stood before him. It was the 
form of an adorer of Deon *, in the days of old. His 
countenance was calm and gentle, but majestic. In 
his left hand was the white rod of power : in his right, 
the branch of health, and the harp of Barthgan -f\ A 
pure robe, the emblem of truth, covered his venerable 
head ; and, pending from his shoulders, fell in flowing 

* Deon. — The ancient Celtic philosophers often applied this epithet 
to the Deity. The term signifies, the distributer, the giver, he that 
sets aright, with an allusion to the sovereign wisdom and power. 

■j- Barthgan, the science of bardism, bardic song, poetry. — The 
Arch-Druid, besides his other insignia, was distinguished by a long 
white rod, or wand, which he carried in his hand, as an emblem of hit 
office. — The branch of peace was the mistleto, or all-heal, a parasitic 
plant, described by the Botanins under the came ¥i$c%. 



6 THE SEER OF NO. 

folds nearly to the ground. His mien was grand and 
awful, but it was courteous and amiable. With a 
voice, sweet and solemn, he thus addressed the son of 
the chief of Glen-Myvyr : " Son of the race of Alban ! 
thy desire is the desire of virtue, and thy prayer will 
be heard. Years have revolved, and generations past 
away, since the heads of the people first hearkened to 
my voice : but their abode is no longer with the sons 
of men. They are now become gliders on the blue 
clouds, and their dwellings are in the land of souls. 
Like thee I have been young, and have panted for 
knowledge, and the words of the wise were sweet in 
mine ears. Instruction is now offered thee. Adore the 
Supreme. And, while attending to the voice of age* 
let the experience of departed times teach thee wisdom. 
Listen and admire, while I unfold to thy imitation the 
precepts of Derwythoni*, the faith of the men of Alban, 
before the race of Rhuvain had disturbed the peace of 
the sea-surrounded Isle. 

" Pants the soul of Gwython for the hunter's fame, 
and the warrior's renown ; or sighs it for the sweets of 
peace, the secrets of knowledge, and the lore of wis- 
dom ? Let him be attentive to the maxims of the sage 
who have past away— of the good who have instructed 
the men of primeval times. They will teach the heart 
to know the intricacies of itself, and to adore the good- 
ness and greatness of Deon, the Life of every Being, 
and the Source of every Thing. Know thyself, son of 



* Derwythoni, the primeval theology, Druidism. — Rhuvain was 
the name given to Rome by the aboriginal Britons. 



I. GLEN-MYVYR. 7 

Doeth, and thou shalt approach nearer to the know- 
ledge of the mysterious One. 

" Is thy desire for the meed of song, the generous 
boon of Beli, splendid giver of worth and renown ? 
Let, then, thy ardent wish arise for the celestial Awen *, 
that its genial inspiration may pervade thy aspiring 
soul. Accustom thine eye to scan the exhibitions of 
Nature, expand thy heart to feel her influence, and 
cherish the magnanimity which can boldly dare to in- 
culcate the maxims that Nature approves. For this 
purpose let thy thoughts be graceful, appropriate, and 
luxuriantly diversified, ennobled by vigour, fancy, and 
knowledge, and supported by learning, memory, and 
mental endowment. By complacency, ingenuity, and 
originality, cultivate social acquaintance : and, by ami- 
able conduct, skill in science, and pure morals, be thy 
aim to ensure praise. Let thy song be the faithful 
record of heroical achievements to prompt the people to 
illustrious feats of fame, a lay of ethical instruction 
painting the paths of virtue, and a harmonious for- 
mulary of the adorations of the tribes, when they ac- 
knowledge the beneficence of the Supreme, when they 
implore his gracious favour, and when they deprecate 
his wrath from offending men. Be it thy intention 
and thy duty, to commend philanthropy, to benefit 
mankind, and to do the will of Deon, the best and 



* Awen simply means, that endowment of the mental faculry 
which directs it to a particular object, but it is generally used by the 
ancient bards as signifying the Muse, the gift of poetry, consisting of 
genius, fancy, and taste. 



8 THE SEER OF NOv 

most benevolent of beings, whose ways are the delight 
of the wise, and whose goodness is the guardian of the 
upright and the valiant. Be thy practice the picture 
of thy doctrines, that they may win attention, imita- 
tion, and applause ; and thus shall thine be a didactic 
strain to the roamers among Alban's hills of green. 

" While a parent's love watches over the opening 
of thy youthful mind, let its precepts excite within thy 
breast a desire for virtue. As the bosom of the tender 
flower expands to imbibe the morning dew, so the 
heart uncloses itself to receive instruction from the lips 
of those it loves. Truth is the fairest ornament of the 
young, and a beauteous crown on the head of silver 
hairs. Therefore scorn falsehood ; it is baneful and 
vile, and the vice of little souls. Fortitude is the no- 
blest bias of the mind ; let it, therefore, be cherished 
with vehement desire, and endeared to the breast of 
pride. It will guide thee, my son, through the storms 
of danger, and the mazes of difficulty. It will foster 
patriotism, the glory and the guardian of the land of 
thy progenitors. Be rectitude the director of thy paths, 
and integrity the delight of thy bosom. Let not the 
stranger declare his name within thy dwelling, and be 
thy abode a place of repose to the wanderer of the de- 
sert. Respect the chiefs of the people, honour the 
men of years, and let the Ones * in white inspire thee 
with reverence. Let thy adorations arise on the rays 
of the morning sun, and thy homage ascend amid the 

* The Ones in white mean, those that presided in religion, the 
Druids, who wore white robes, emblematic of purity, virtue, and truth. 



J. GLEN-MYVYR. V 

beams of the west. So shall peace attend thy steps, 
and happiness be the solace of thy years, while a so- 
journer amid the dusky woodlands of thy native hills. 
Placid also shall be thy course to the land of bliss : no 
storm shall darken around thy departure, and the fair 
ones of delight shall hail thy approach towards the 
high halls of the brave and virtuous, the ever-green 
bowers of the beauteous Ocean-Isle *." 

The Bard now attuned his harp to the tones of his 
sonorous voice, and the loves of Aldrud and Vinvena, 
arose symphonious to the melody of its trembling strings. 
And thus it burst on the raptured ear of Gwython, 
while he gazed in admiration on the form of the Seer. 

Aldrud, the son of Selwyn, was chief of Arthrin, 
land of the breezy hills. A hundred groves gave shade 
and beauty to his spacious valleys, all fair and fruitful, 
and washed by the waters of innumerous streams. A- 
mong the dales of his mountains browzed a thousand 
deer, and the caves of his rocks were the impervious 
retreats of the tusky boar. A hundred youthful chief- 
tains followed his steps in the chase, or raised their 
steely lances beside the aged warrior in the deathful 
toils of the field. In his hall hung the shields of a 
countless race, amid the spoils of a thousand years. 
Strong was the arm of Selwyn, and his generous heart 
firm as the adamantine base of rocky Lumnion. But 



* Ocean- Isle — The ancient Celtic theologues placed their paradise 
in an Island surrounded by tempests, and far removed into the West- 
■ern Ocean. It was described as abounding with every object of desire 
and happiness, and named Flath-Innis, the Isle of the Noble Ones. 



10 THE SEER OF* NO. 

his soul, though stern in danger, would melt at the 
tale of woe, and his feet were swift to the relief of the 
unhappy, to the help of the feeble ones. 

As a young oak on the brow of a silvan height, so 
grew the son of the mighty Selwyn. His sire foresaw 
his renown, and exulted in the fame of his race. Fleet 
were the feet of Aldrud on the rocks of roes, and dar- 
ing his arm in the chase of the mountain boar. Proud 
beat his heart and high heaved his breast of desire, 
when his left hand received the shield of Cadvan, and 
his right the ruddy lance of Rhuon. He sighed for 
the sound of war, and panted for glory on the crimson- 
ed plain. At the shrine of Beli his vows were heard ; 
and the first of his battles raised his name above those 
of little men. Beneath the warrior's sword sunk the 
mighty, and it was stained with the blood of the proud. 
Its flash was fleet and resistless as the lightning of 
heaven : before it fled the foes of the Land of Hills, 
when the rage of the chief was terrible. From the 
fields of the slain he returned in triumph, while the 
sounding of his buckler was responded by the fierce 
eagles of the sky. In the hall pf peace he listened to 
the lays of renown, and the mighty deeds of his arm 
arose in the song of bards. 

But the soul of Aldrud heeded not the voice of 
praise : it was on other hills, in the streamy land of 
his love. The hero had seen Vinvena in all her charms, 
and he loved the daughter of Hoen, the courteous lord 
of Bm-Londra's towery halls. His portly form and 
magnanimous soul assailed the heart of the gentle maid., 
and he became " the dweller of her secret sigh." 



I. GLEN-MYVYR. 1 1 

In the pride of youth, and flushed with exultant 
hope, the princely chief of Arthrin was hastening to 
the bowers of his bride. Around him were the youth 
of his race, and he rejoiced in the strength of his land. 
Stately was his step along the side of the woody moun- 
tains, and majestic his mien as he strode through the 
lone valleys, by the margins of their floody streams, 
Upon his head gleamed a burnished helm, in his hand 
shone a deathful lance of steel, and upon his arm was 
braced the bossy shield of his sire. As a vigorous hart 
brushes through the brakes of the wood, or adown the 
sloping sides of the heathy hills, to meet the bounding 
roe, the mate of his joyous youth, so the valiant AI- 
drud, hale and hopeful, hasted to the haunts of his 
love. He hasted to the arms of Vinvena, to receive 
the fair of Din-Londra from her parent's hand. 

To the hall of his love the hero came ; but silence 
reigned around it. The towers were blackened by 
fire and defaced with ruin. No voice was heard with- 
in them, save that of the hollow wind murmuring in 
dismal moanings through their chinky walls. The 
courts were forlorn and dreary, for its chief had fallen 
by the foemaifs guile, and his people were slain by the 
hand of the perfidious. Sad grew the heart of Aldrud ; 
but it heaved with resentment. His cheek of love be- 
came red with rage, and his blue eye beamed with the 
blaze of ire. He struck his moony shield to arouse 
some dweller in secret, that his afflictive tale might 
direct his course to the treacherous foe, and brace his 
brawny arm for vengeance. Forth from the ruined 

b 2 



12 THE SEER OF NO. 

pile came slowly a hoary man, bent with a load of 
years, and tottering over the staff of age. His silver 
tresses whistled in the gale of spring, and he sighed as 
he heavily moved along. Upon the youth he bent the 
glistening eye of tears, while his faltering tongue de- 
tailed the ills of his lord, and the death of his people. 

" From Lochlyifs * land the cruel rovers came. To 
the sea of storms they gave their black-bosomed ships, 
and their broad sails rattled amid the tempests of the 
foaming ocean. Bescreened in the darkness of night, and 
urged by the lust of blood, the ruthless prowlers sought 
Din-Londra 1 s peaceful dwelling. As the eagle of heaven, 
fierce and remorseless, darts on his wareless prey, so 
rushed the myrmidons to the deaths of thousands. Their 
savage yells resounded, drear and horrible, through the 
towers of our chief, and destruction stalked, trium- 
phant, over the havoc of his lordly race. They con- 
sumed with fire the halls of heroes, and the blaze of a 
thousand trophies illumed the murky bosom of the mid- 
night sky. Long ere the dawn arose, their blood-stained 
vessels bounded on the face of the surgy deep, and their 
careering prows swept through the sea-green billows to 
the slaughter of the sons of other lands. 11 — ■ 

" It is thine, O Father Deon I 11 exclaimed the im- 
passioned Aldrud, " to judge the right. Give thy in- 
spiration to this breast, and invigorate this arm to 
avenge the wrong— the wrong of innocence and the in- 
sult of love !" He said ; and with hasty steps retraced 
the lonely paths of the wild. 

! * Lochlyn — >a name given to the regions on the shores of the Baltic. 



I. GLEN-MYVYR. 13 

To the place of his fathers came the youth of the 
saddened soul, where he struck his responsive boss, and 
upraised the clang of war. His people knew the terri- 
ble alarm, and rushed from afar at the call of the val- 
iant. In a hundred ships they dash through the reeling- 
waves, nor heed the hissing of the tumultuous main. 
They seek Lochlyn of tempests, and their prows are 
towards the land of the ruthless ones. Stern and mus~ 
ive, Aldrud stands ; he stands in silence amid the sons 
of the ocean. His thoughts are on the loves of Vinve- 
na, while he sighs over the untimely fall of the maid. 

Through the wavy billows of a sounding bay the 
ships of heroes glide to the gulfy shore. The leader of 
the throng bounds upon the foamy beach, beneath the 
lowering brow of a stupendous rock, and his warriors 
rank around him. Boldly he scales the cliffy sides of 
the threatening steep, and with stedfast ken surveys 
from afar the woody vales of the stranger's land. The 
sons of his strength await below ; they see the daring 
of their lord, and glory in the fame of Arthrm's gallant 
chief. He gains the topmost peak of the hill of crags, 
and reposes from his toil on the side of a huge and 
hoary stone. Anon, bursts upon his ear the hum of a 
distant crowd. It was a train of Lochlyn's sons, the 
votaries of bloody Odin *, conducting a victim, the lorn 

* Odin was the fierce war-god of the Northmen, who immolated 
human victims upon his altars, and adored him under many appella- 
tions characteristic of his sanguinary nature. — Among the Scandina- 
vians,, every family had its Rock of Execution, whence the aged, the 
diseased, the women, and the slaves, were hurled headlong, as victim* 
devoted to Hela, the hateful president of the infernal regions. 



14 THE SEER OP NO. 

captive of war, to the Rock of Death. Serene and 
dreadless, on its fateful summit sat the youthful darer, 
and beheld the approach of the cruel. In front of the 
dreadful band was led a daughter of distress, and a hun- 
dred voices raised the song of blood. But firm was the 
step of the devoted, and proud her lofty mien. Upon 
the cold gale of the north danced her golden ringlets 
as, dauntless, she strode in the march of woe. She was 
doomed to atone for the sins of a hated race, to be pre- 
cipitated to the dreary regions of Hela's dark domain. 

The hideous sight rppalled the lonely chief as he 
bent his watchful eyes on the ruthless train. Firmer 
lie seized his quivering lance, and his sword of steel 
shook in his wrathful grasp. The band of blood draw 
near. — As the lightning of the sky sweeps along the 
blue welkin and strews the forest in ruin, so rushed 
Aldrud on the direful crowd. He beheld the thongs of 
the ignoble on the lily hands of Din-Londra's fair. As 
the boar of the mountain shakes the oak in autumn and 
its spoils fall around, so sunk the bloody ones beneath 
the warrior's hand. His people hear the din of the 
conflict, and they haste to the harvest of fame. The 
ground is drenched with the gore of thousands, and the 
shouts of the triumphant arise. Before the brave of 
Arthrin flee the children of unholy Odin, and their 
carnage bestains the execrable precincts of his grove. 
Through its darksome shades crackles the vengeful fire> 
and consumes his fane of skulls. — 

Proud in his gliding ship the generous Aldrud gives 
Din-Londra's daughter to the embrace of her sire. A 



I. GLEN-MYVYR. 15 

song to the praise of Deon, the defender of the good, 
melts on the rustling air. With the voice of joy they 
hail the hills where their fathers dwelt. They rejoice 
in the fame of their chief, and the harps of a hundred 
bards celebrate his heroism at the feast. — The tear of 
joy was in the eye of Vinvena when she sunk into the 
warrior's arms. Their name is high in Arthrin, and 
DinLondra's sons exult in the glory of the lovely. 



No. II. 

" Should e'er Ambition's towering hopes injlame, 

Let judging reason draw the vail aside ; 
Or, fir 'd with envy at some empty name, 

Read o'er the monument that tells — He died." 

Ogilvie's Ode to Melancholy, St. 17. 

TO fix the mind upon objects within the power 
of fortune is both weak and improvident. It is possi- 
ble that what has been acquired may be lost, and even 
enjoyment may be lessened by care or embittered by 
sorrow. The pleasure, likewise, arising from fruition 
seldom compensates the toil and solicitude by which it 
has been obtained. An eager pursuit after a particular 
object, by engrossing its faculties, also, dissipates and 
embarrasses the mind, and at the same time endangers 
our tranquillity and happiness. It is, therefore, vain, 
and ignoble, and unwise, to allow the attention to be 



16 THE FATE OP NO. 

diverted from acquirements that are momentous and 
permanent, by others that are by nature uncertain and 
transitory. Intellectual attainments can only be made 
our own. For this reason, and because they smooth 
the path of duty and point out the road to immortal 
felicity, they alone are to be deemed worthy of the ex- 
ertions of a rational mind. 

Ambition-, when it exists as the desire "of applause 
bestowed upon the execution of something great, or ex- 
cellent, or beneficial, is, doubtless, one of the noblest 
passions of the human heart. It then prompts to laud- 
able enterprise, it excites to deeds of benevolence, it 
stimulates to the practice of virtue, and it calls forth 
the achievements of magnanimity and patriotism. But 
however honourable may be its intentions, and however 
amiable its designs, they are not exempted from change 
and disappointment. Vicissitude is the lot of humanity, 
and the state assigned to terrestrial things. The career 
of youth may be commenced with prosperity, and a se- 
ries of fortunate events may promise a happy consum- 
mation ; but, at the very time when the soul is congra- 
tulating itself upon the prospects of felicity, the dark- 
ling clouds of misfortune begin to gather around it. 
The lowering gloom of adversity darkens, deepens, and 
expands ; till, amid the burst of its storm, happiness, 
and even existence, is overwhelmed in the gulf of mis- 
ery. Of this melancholy observation, the truth is 
strongly depicted in the scenes of life, and of its wide 
and general application the following affecting narra- 
tive exhibits a lively and interesting picture. 



tU BE SOUZA. 17 

Don Emmanuel de Souza* was, from 1588 to 
1590, governor of Diu, a Portuguese settlement in In- 
dia, where he amassed immense wealth. On his return 
to his native country 5 the ship, in which were his lady, 
the beautiful Leonora de Sa, all his riches, and five hun- 
dred men, his sailors and domestics, was dashed to piec- 
es on the rocks which form the Cape of Good Hope* 
Don Emmanuel, his lady, and three children, with four 
hundred of the crew, only escaped, and with difficulty 
saved a few arms and a scanty stock of provisions. 

As they marched through the rude uncultivated de- 
sarts of Southern Africa, some of these forlorn and un- 
happy beings died of famine, of thirst, and of fatigue ; 
others, who wandered from their companions in wretch- 
edness, in search of water, were murdered by the san- 
guinary barbarians, or destroyed by the wild beasts of 
the woods. The horror of this miserable situation was 
most dreadfully aggravated to the tender Leonora. 
Added to her own privations and personal sufferings, 
which must have been anguishing and exquisite, she 
was doomed to be a daily witness of the wants and the 
woes of her delicate babes, without being able to miti- 
gate or relieve them. But the distress of her breaking 
heart was rendered intolerable by the knowledge of the 
agonizing situation of her doating husband, who now 
began to betray the perturbation of his mind by dis- 
covering fits of insanity. They arrived, at last, at a 
lone hamlet inhabited by a horde of predatory Ethio- 

* This shipwreck and deplorable catastrophe is the subject of an 
affecting poem, by Jerome de Cortereal, a Portugueze poet. 
VOL. I. C 



[,§ THE FATE OF NO. 

pians, exhausted with want, wretchedness, and fatigue. 
At first, they met with a hospitable and courteous 
reception, under which was masked an ungenerous and 
malignant design. De Souza, partly stupified with grief 
and thrown off his guard by their perfidious favour, at 
the desire of the barbarians, yielded up to them the 
arms of his company. No sooner was this done than 
the savages stripped naked the whole of the miserable 
sufferers, left them destitute of subsistence, and expos- 
ed to the mercy of the prowlers of the desart. The 
misery of the delicate and exposed Leonora was increas- 
ed by the brutal insults of the base and unfeeling ne- 
groes. Her husband, unable to prevent or lessen her 
calamities, could only behold and commiserate them. 
After having travelled nearly three hundred leagues, 
her limbs swelled, and her wounded feet bled at every 
step. Her strength being at last exhausted, she sunk 
down, amid the parched and pathless wild, and with the 
sand covered herself to the neck, to conceal her uncloth- 
ed and emaciated body. In this dreadful situation she 
beheld two of her children expire. Death, soon after, 
relieved her from such unparallelled distress. Her hus- 
band, who had long been enamoured of her beauty, re- 
ceived her last breath in a distracted embrace. Imme- 
diately after, he snatched his third child into his arms, 
and, uttering the most lamentable cries, rushed into 
the closest thicket of a neighbouring wood. The wild 
beasts were soon heard to growl over their prey. — 

Or the whole four hundred who escaped the waves, 
only twenty-six arrived at another Ethiopian village, 
the inhabitants of which, in consequence of their inter- 



II. DE SOUZA. 19 

course with other nations and commerce with the mer- 
chants of the Red Sea, were more humane and civilized. 
From this place, they found a passage to Europe, and 
brought the tidings of the calamitous fate of their com- 
panions. 

This most impressive episode has attracted the 
splendid genius of Luis de Camoens, the epic poet of 
Portugal, who has made it the subject of a pathetic and 
sublime description. With inimitable effect he has put 
it into the mouth of the Spirit of the Cape of Tempests*, 
in a terrific address to the daring Gama, on his voyage 
to the discovery of India. 

" The howling blast, ye slumbering storms prepare, 
A youthful Lover and his beauteous Fair, 
Triumphant sail from India's ravaged land ; 
His evil angel leads him to my strand. 
Through the torn hulk the dashing waves shall roar, 
The shatter^ wrecks shall blacken all my shore. 
Themselves escaped, despoifd by savage hands, 
Shall naked wander o'er the burning sands. 
Spared by the waves far deeper woes to bear, 
Woes even by me acknowledged with a tear. 
Their infant race, the promised heirs of joy, 
Shall now no more a hundred hands employ .; 
By cruel want, beneath the parents' 1 eye, 
In these wide wastes their infant race shall die. 
Through dreary wilds where pilgrim never trod, 
Where caverns yawn and rocky fragments nod, 

* The Cape of Good Hope was so named by the first discoverers. 



20 THE PATE OF DE SOUZA. NO. 

The hapless Lover and his Bride shall stray, 
By night unsheltered, and forlorn by day. 
In vain the Lover o^er the trackless plain 
Shall dart his eyes, and cheer his spouse in vain, 
Her tender limbs and breast of mountain snow, 
Where ne^r before intruding blast might blow, 
Parch'd by the sun, and shriveFd by the cold 
Of dewy night, shall he, fond man, behold. 
Thus wandering wide, a thousand ills o^rpast, 
In fond embraces they shall sink at last ; 
While pitying tears their dying eyes oVrflow, 
And the last sigh shall wail each other's woe. — 

Mickle's Camoens' Lusiad, B. V. v. 487— 415. w, 



No. III. 

" Falsely luxurious, will not man awake ; 
And, springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy 
The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour. 
To meditation due, and sacred song ?" 

Thomson's Summer, v. 66 — 69. 

SWEET is the breath of Morn, says the sublime- 
ly descriptive Milton, her rising sweet, with charm of 
earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, when first on this de- 
lightful land he spreads his orient beams, on herb, tree, 
fruit, and flower, glistering with dew. — Such, among 
many others, are the incitements exhibited by the face 
of Nature to prompt mankind to Early Rising. 

It is generally allowed, that this patriarchal habit 
is most abundant in advantages conducive both to health 



HI. ON EARLY RISING, 21 

and happiness. To recommend it is, therefore, a popu- 
lar subject, and has been a theme of genius applauding 
the practice of the wise in every age. The following 
observations on the pleasure and usefulness attending 
it, solicit the regard of those who have become enam- 
oured of indolence, and are ignorant of the gratification 
they forego, by indulging sloth and inaction. 

Tjie exercise of Early Rising confirms a sound con- 
stitution, and is a certain indication of industry. It ap- 
plies to every situation in life. What advantages does 
the mechanic, or man of business, derive from it ? It in- 
vigorates the body and animates the mind ; and strength 
contemplates labour and exertion with joy. Each be- 
gins his assigned work betimes, and it advances beneath 
his hand. His task is completed at an early hour, and 
he enjoys repose from his toil, amid the society of his 
friends in the evening, with an exquisite relish, which 
receives a zest from the approbation of a virtuous mind. 

But there are some whose business is pleasure, and 
whose sole concern is self-gratification. Now, these 
of all men are frequently the most unfortunate in their 
choice of the means whereby to accomplish so desirable 
an end. What can be supposed to be more pregnant 
with solace and variety than the face of Nature beau- 
tified by all the blushing charms of the dawn ? It is 
exuberant in objects clothed with loveliness, and de- 
corated with every diversity that contributes to beguile 
solicitude and enliven delight. Let such, then, whose 
only labour is to Evjoy Life, hasten from the couch of 
indolence and inactivity, and pursue betimes the course 
of energy and enterprize. If no domestic arrangement 



22 ON EARLY RISING, NO. 

require their attention, let them seek the fields and trace 
the beauties of the spring. They will see in the daisy's 
blush an emblem of modesty, and a picture of elegance 
and delicacy in the lily's tender bloom. They will hear 
the effusions of gratitude in the wild-bird's song, and 
receive a lesson of industry from the ceaseless applica- 
tion of the provident bee. 

Yegeto was young, gay, and handsome. His mind 
was enlightened by education , and his manners polished 
by intercourse with refined society. His heart bounded 
with health, and his eye sparkled with animation and 
hilarity. He was amiable, vigorous, and accomplished, 
but his modes of life had prevented him from becoming 
acquainted with the advantages of Early Rising. Ac- 
cident had made him acquainted with Amanda, who 
was lively, beautiful, and good. The occurrence gave 
birth to a new sensation in his mind. He became rest- 
less and unaccountably volatile ; and, among his other 
eccentricities, he was seized with a fit of loving a walk 
in the morning. During one of his early rambles he 
strayed into a solitary valley, the sides of which were 
covered with woods, and its bosom laved by a limpid 
rill. On its banks he met the fair Amanda, whose pic- 
ture might have represented the Goddess of Morning, 
tor sweetness and beauty. The interview must have 
been more than agreeable, for it confirmed the new- 
born exertions of the youth ; and, either the loveliness 
of the scene, the charms of his companion who after- 
wards became his wife, or the vivacity of the heart pro- 
duced by air and exercise, drew from him, on his re- 
turn, the following lines descriptive of 



ON EARLY RISING. 



THE MORNING. 



How bright beams the sun from behind the high mountain, 

O'er slumbering Nature diffusing the day ! 
Ail crystal and clear gleams the fall of the fountain,, 

In the red mellow rays on its waters that play. 

Delightful and mild are the breezes of morning, 
Soft fanning the bosom of each blooming rose, 

And fragrant the wild flowers the green mead adorning, 
Where the lone bourn in secret meandering, flows. 

Now gay are the groves, and the fresh buds are shining, 
With dew-drops bespangling the shrub and the thorn, 

And blithely the birds, on the green boughs intwining, 
In notes of sweet melody welcome the morn. 

The song of the lark through the white cloud ascending, 

Is soothing amid the light mists of the air. 
O'er Nature contentment and peace are extending, « 

And Hope plants a smile on the brow of Despair. 

Turn to the man of genius, and consider the enjoy- 
ments he derives from Early Rising. If he sit down to 
study, he rejoices in the exhilaration of his mind which 
is vigorous and happy. He proceeds with success and 
vivacity. His ideas are clear, his conclusions just, and 
his diction perspicuous. Pie is not tormented with 
drowsy languor, or the feeble imbecility of sloth. By 
his own mind his exertions are approved, and this gives 
a brilliancy to the playful wit and conviviality which 
conclude his joyous day. 



24 OX EARLY RISING. NO* 

But let us follow the good man, or the philosopher^ 
in his morning walk. What are his thoughts and ob- 
servations on the objects among which he wanders ? He 
sees the dewy plants and flowers opening their glisten- 
ing leaves, and reviving in the beams of the sun. The 
hum of the diligent bee is heard by him ; he beholds it 
flitting from flower to flower, and delighting in its 
luscious toil. He receives a lesson of activity and in- 
dustry, and he resolves to copy the perseverance of the 
bee. The song of the lark, and the carols of birds 
perched on the springing branches sweetly melt on his 
ear. He catches a glow of gratitude from the little har- 
monists, his tributary aspirations ascend to the Sove- 
reign of Nature, his soul expands in devotion, and his 
heart becomes rapt with feelings of ecstacy and joy. 
Turning his contemplative eye to the nobler works of 
creation, he admires their order and beauty, and beholds, 
in their construction and economy, the obvious exer- 
cise of almighty wisdom and power. Meditation be* 
guiles his thoughts from the scenes of time. They sweep 
from the terrestrial to more exalted spheres — they bound 
to the Creator's throne. To the author of his being he 
commends his cares, he unfolds his weaknesses, and dis- 
closes his wants. Hope exhilarates his breast, joy light- 
ens his countenance, and serenity and confidence become 
the pledge of future felicity. — So exquisite are the en- 
joyments of a mind, tutored by Science and attuned to 
Virtue, and at the same time impressed with a sense of 
rectitude and religion. 



IV. THE HEIR OF STRATH-GARTNEY. 25 

No. IV. 

<c And wilt thou then, generous maid, 

Such matchless favour shorn, 
To share with me, a banish 'd wight, 

My peril, pain, or woe ? 

" Now heaven, I trust, hath joys in store 

To crown thy constant breast ; 
For, know, fond hope assures my heart 

That we shall soon be blest." 
Hermit of Waukworth, Fit ii. St. 7 and S. 

THE blackbird fills the grove with his loud melo- 
dy, while the sweet warblings of the linnet steal, with 
a charming sweetness, between the breaks of his song. 
It is thus with the votaries of the Muse. Their strains 
are as diversified as those of the songsters of the wood. 
The general object of all is to please. They excel, who 
delight and instruct — who gain attention, and by power- 
fully influencing the passions, improve the mind. There 
are, who contemplate with rapture the high branching 
arms of the majestic oak, while at their side may be 
those, who admire the blush of the daisy and dwell with 
delight on the hawthorn's bloom. The superior de- 
partments of poetry, in like manner, possess their at- 
tractions and are received with applause, while the 
humble strain plays around the heart and commands 
the tribute of simplicity receiving pleasure from truth. 
vol. i. © 



26 THE HEIR OP NO. 

This arises from the susceptibility of taste to receive 
congenial impressions. The Epic owes its influence to 
imitation and embellishment: the Pastoral, while it lisps 
the language of Nature, points the finger of feeling 
and the eye of observation to the pictures it describes. 

The different classes of poetry are as various as the 
subjects it inculcates, or the affections upon which it 
is intended to operate. There are, the epic or heroical, 
the didactic or moral, the satirical, the bucolic or pas- 
toral, the elegiac, the amorous or what consists of love 
verses, the hymnic, and, besides some other kinds, 
what may be denominated the narrative, consisting of 
the ballad and the tale. This latter species of versifica- 
tion is of ancient vise. The Athenians used it with 
much success, and Solon, their great legislator, propa- 
gated his institutions among the lower orders by cloth- 
ing them in popular verse. In our own country, this 
kind of composition has long been a favourite branch 
in the poetical department. The people delight in the 
song, the ballad, and the metrical tale. If some of 
these are deficient in elegance, many abound with a 
nobler grace. They are strong incentives to prowess 
and military valour, they foster a manly love of freedom 
and independency, they draw forth a desire for honour- 
able renown, and they cultivate humanity, delicacy, 
and feeling, by acting upon the tender passions and 
rousing the energies of the unvitiated mind. 

These observations point to the following Piece, 
the production of a female pen. The simplicity of its 
structure, in language and arrangement, it is hoped s 
will please ; and the sentiments it breathes cannot fail 



IV. STRATH-GARTNEY. 27 

to interest. It is submitted as a picture, exhibiting a 
contrast of manners, and delineating the progress of 
the tender passion in a delicate and generous mind. It 
will not mislead the affections; and, as it may innocent- 
ly amuse, it will not be disregarded by such as imitate 
Nature, and respect those feelings which Nature excites. 

THE HEIR OF 

STRATH-GARTNEY. 

A TALE. 

" Ah ! why, poor youth, thy ruin'd frame, 

Thy raiment why so torn, 
Thy limbs deep wounded, bare, and lame. 

Thy aspect all forlorn ? 

" Thy mien would better birth bespeak, 

Has fortune proved unkind ? 
The roses wither'd on thy cheek 

Betray a troubled mind. 

" And, why thy eye so sunk and wild 

Do swelling tears now fill ?" — 
The youth replied, " I'm sorrow's child ; 

They call me crazy Will. 

"But Will has seen a better time, 

Though destined now to rove : 
His hands are stain'd with ne'er a crime ; 

His heart but dared to love. 

d 2 



2S THE HEIR OP 

" As blackbird chanting on the spray. 
With voice so sweet and shrill, 

I once was happy, blithe, and gay, 
Though now I'm crazy Will. 

' f When set to dine, I drank the wine, 

The sack, and hydromel ; 
Now water clear is fitter cheer, 

And better suits poor Will. 

" My food the berry from the thorn, 

And with the birds of air, 
I'd treat the human race with scorn, 

Except for Anna fair." — ■ 

" Where's Anna," now the stranger cries, 

" Is she another's bride ?" — 
The fire flash'd fierce in William's eyes, 

His cheeks the crimson dyed.— - 

" No, no — but, hark ! the thunder's roll— > 

I see a yawning vast ; — 
The howling tempest tears my soul, — 

My brain whirls in the blast."— 

" Poor Youth ! I've touch'd a tender part, 

But, trust me, I would fain 
Restore to peace thy wounded heart, 

And sooth thy every pain." — 



STRATH-GARTNEY. 29 

With doubting look he answer'd, " sure 

'T would baffle all your skill ; 
For none on earth can ever cure 

The love-cross'd, crazy Will. 

" But now I fear too long we stand ; 

The sun has pass'd his noon." — 
The stranger kindly press'd his hand — > 

" We must not part so soon. 

" Dear Youth ! your name I fain would know. 

And place where you abide ; 
And if I cannot cure your woe, 

I'll better fare provide." — 

The youth replied, " your words so kind 

Would tempt me to impart 
The secrets of a troubled mind, 

And open all my heart.— 

" My father was a man of wealth, 

And true to Stewart's line, 
Which caused him leave his home by stealth, 

And e'en his name resign. 

" Nine seasons o'er my youthful head 

Had scarce their changes run, 
When with my parent thus I fled :— 

I was his only son. 



30 THE HEIR OP 

" No vassals tend us as we stray'd, 

Nor pages wait our call ; 
Our garments changed to homely plaid, 

To me seem'd wonder all. 

« And far we wander'd many a day, 

O'er waste and dreary wild : 
My father cheer'd me by the way, 

And all my cares beguiled. 

" Where Greenwood's scenes unite to charm, 

We reach'd a lovely spot ; 
And here we hired a little farm, 

And rear'd an humble cot. 

" The ivy weaves around its sides 

A robe of glossy green ; 
And wheresoe'er a root divides., 

A rose is placed between. 

« The woodbine mantles round the door. 
With shade so sweet and cool ; 

And neatly pave the cottage floor 
Pure pebbles from the pool. — 

" My father now a shepherd see, 

Conceal'd from all his foes, 
Enjoy the fruits of industry, 

Contentment and repose. 



STRATH-GARTNEY. 31 

" Each morn he'd tend his fleecy care, 

And, when the day was done, 
Would to his peaceful home repair, 

And there instruct his son. 

" All day through flowery dells I ranged^ 

And garlands gay would twine, 
Unmindful of my fortune changed, 

No future care was mine. 

" Till Anna fair I chanced to meet, 

Alone by Greenwood-Hall ; 
No opening flower was half so sweet ; 

She far excelFd them all. 

"Her form, her features, all divine, 

With wonder filfd my breast, 
Nor did she seem displeased with mine 

Nor shumfd when I caress'd. 

" She lookM so pleased, so sweetly smiled. 

Her tale so artless told ; 
For Anna, then, was but a child, 

Scarce turnM of seven years old. 

" Now hand in hand we daily roam 

In search of fragrant flowers, 
Reluctant aye we think of home, 

And leave the silvan bowers. 



32 THE HEIR OP 

" And oft I felt a pang to part 
I ne'er before had known : 

I long'd to fold her to my heart, 
And call her all my own. 

" Our hearts, as if for one design'dj 
Like woodbine on its tree, 

The older grown, the closer twin'd— 
'Twould break to set them free. 

" How unperceived the seasons flew ! 

Nine rapid years fast sped : 
At length the Squire suspicious grew ; 

And all our pleasures fled. 

a At wonted hour I sought the plain; 

My bosom fill'd with care ; 
I watch'd for Anna's steps in vain ; 

No Anna wander'd there. 

" Next day she came with heavy heart 

And told me all her woe, 
That we must now forever part : 

Her father will'd it so. 

« Within a woodland's mossy cave 

We sought a lone retreat, 
Where to our grief full vent we gave* 

And plighted vows repeat. 



STRATH-GARTNEY. 

" Unseen, we thought, by every eye, 

And no intrusion fear'd : 
But ah ! the subtile Squire was nigh, 

And ail our converse heard. 

" Red, red with rage his visage grew ; 

In words of wrathful scorn, 
He vow'd to make us dearly rue 

That e'er we had been born. 

" I little cared his threats to me, 

But for my Anna's sake ; 
For, O ! I fearM his cruelty 

Her gentle heart would break. 

" Now home I went, my soul was sad ; 

No more the vale I ranged ; 
No songsters there could make me glad 

E'en nature's face was changed. 

" My sire me to a distance sent, 

Reluctant all to go, 
Though well I knew his kind intent, 

Was to divert my woe. 

" My path was waylaid by a band 

Of ruffians hired to kill : 
They seiz'd and tied me foot and hand, 

Though me they owed no ill. 
>L. i, e 



33 



34 THE HEIR OF 3 

" They gagg'd my mouth, and on the ground, 

All gasping to get breath, 
Thus savage-like they left me bound 

To meet a lingering death. 

" A dreary night and day I passM; 

All hope was far removed ; 
I thought each hour would prove my last ;«— 

Yet Anna still I loved. 

a A shepherd found me in this plight, 
Whose flock had distant stray'd, 

And, moved with pity at the sight, 
He hasten'd to my aid : 

" And to his lowly cot me bare, 

All helpless and unknown, 
And tended me with kindly care 

As I had been his own. 

"My limbs benumbM, and s weird, and sore, 

Required a time to rest : — 
But time nor rest can e'er restore 

The quiet of my breast. — 

" Now to our home again I haste, 

To lean my weary head : — 
The flocks were gone, — the cottage waste,— 

And, ah ! my father fled. 



STRATH-GARTNEY. 35 

(' 'Twas then that reason dropp'd the rein; 

My blood ran cold and chill ; 
A burning fever seiz'd my brain. 

And left me crazy Will."— 

The stranger heard in mute surprise, 

Till when the youth was done ; 
Then clasps him to his breast and cries, 

" Art thou Strath-Gartney's son ? 

" That manly form full well I know 

So like my long-loved friend : — 
IVe tidings glad to cure thy woe, 

And make thy sorrows end, 

" Your father sought you o'er the plain, 

Unwearied, night and day, 
And when his labour proved in vain, 

To grief became a- prey. 

<< He knew his en'mies 1 baleful hate, 

Which caused him first to roam ; 
But now, regardless of his fate, 

He boldly ventured home. 

-■" Soon was he seized by watchful foe, 

Whose wrath no time could cure, 
But sought, in death or overthrow, 

To make his ruin sure. 



36 THE HEIR OF NO, 

" His well-known worth the king beheld. 

And seal'd his pardon free ; 
His title only he withheld, 

And that conferr'd on thee. 

" Thy father's friend, as such I'm sent, 

My sovereign's servant too ; 
By both on the same errand bent, 

And that 's in search of you. 

si O that I could restore thy rest, 

And cause thy sorrows cease ; — 
How will it wound thy parent's breast, 

To see thy broken peace !"— - 

In thoughtful silence William stood, 

His bosom heaved a sigh, 
When, in a solemn pensive mood, 

He utter'd this reply. 

• e < There grows a flower in Greenwood bower, 

Far sweeter than a rose, 
Had I the power to gain that flower, 
'Twould all my mind compose."-— 

To Greenwood-Hall the stranger hies, 

So stately and so fair ; 
Its turrets rise to meet the skies ;- 

And guide his footsteps there. 



JV. STRATH-GARTNEY. 37 

His courtly mien, and grand attire 

A welcome kind insure, 
Where gaudy shew can more inspire 

Than humble worth when poor. 

He Greenwood's haughty squire addressM 5 

In words of graceful ease ; 
Though little favoured in his breast, 

'Twas policy to please. 

( f I have a friend, a baron bold, 

Who has one son and heir, 
He profers all his lands and gold 

With him to Anna fair." 

The squire was glad, and answer'd kind ; 

It filPd his heart with joy, 
For much he fearM, with constant mind, 

She loved a shepherd boy. — 

He guides the stranger to a bower, 

Beneath a skirting wood, 
Where Anna often spent an hour, 

In pensive solitude. 

Her face, her form, her modest mien, 

The stranger well approved : 
Her like before he ne'er had seen, 

Nor wonder'd William loved. 



38 THE HEIR OP 

He now, with words of courtesy, 

Address'd the blushing fair ; 
" A noble youth makes suit to thee, 

A baron's only heir. 

" If virtue pure, and manly grace, 

With form surpassing fair, 
May in your bosom win a place, 

Then, Lady, place him there. 

fi He knows your worth, he saw you fair, 

His heart of you approves ; 
Your answer kind will ease his care ; 

For you he dearly loves."— 

Like sunny beam through April shower, 

So shone fair Anna's eye ; 
She struggled hard to summon power, 

And then made this reply : 

" In pity to my hapless fate, 

I pray your suit remove, 
The object of a father's hate 

His daughter 's doom'd to love. 

" I love him much, I've loved him long, 

And love him ever will, 
I know for me he suffer'd wrong, 

And fear he suffers still 



STRATH-GARTNEY. 

« Each spot wherever he appear'd, 
Remembrance still endears ; 

Each flower that by his hand was rear'd 
I water with my tears. 

" To sooth his care, O happy lot ! 

A shepherd though he be, 
With William I'd prefer a cot 

To lord of high degree. 

" By mutual vow he holds my heart, 

So faithful and so true, 
No power on earth our loves can part, 

No fortune make me rue." — 

" O lady sweet, yet condescend, — 

I beg it on my knee — 
That you for once admit my friend, 

Then seal your own decree. 

" Your constancy I much admire, 

So must Sir William too, 
His visit may appease thy sire, 

And service prove to you." — 

Fair Anna paused and heaved a sigh, 
Then bow'd a meek consent. 

The stranger thank'd her courteously, 
And fast from Greenwood went. 



40 THE HEIR OF 

The squire still watching Anna's eye, 

Six anxious days had passM, 
When from the tower he chanced to spy 

The stranger come at last. 

Who now return'd, and by his side, 

A youth of lordly mien ; 
They both on stately coursers ride, 

Their pages dressM in green. 

Their steeds were harness'd rich in gold, 

So splendid their attire, 
That all with wondVing eyes behold, 

Nor least surprized the squire. 

Straight to the hall their course they bend, 

Where lovely Anna stood,— 
" Here, Lady, I have brought my friend, 

And hold my promise good. 

" O kindly listen to his suit, 

And let him comfort prove ; 
He seems so thoughtful and so mute, 

I fear he 's sick of love. 

" For I have warn'd him of the fate, 
Which may his hopes destroy, 

That you, to all his wealth and state. 
Prefer a shepherd boy."-— 



STRATH-GARTNEY. 41 

From Annans cheek the roses flew. 

She stood like lily-flower, 
Bent with the weight of morning dew, 

Or eve's refreshing shower. 

Till William clasp'd her in his arms 

And said, " O love him still, 
Sir William doating on thy charms, 

Is just thy shepherd Will." 



No. V. 

" O'er thy soul's joy how oft thy fondness frowns ! 
Needful austerities his will restrain ; 
As thorns fence in the tender plant from harm. 
As yet, his reason cannot go alone ; 
But asks a sterner nurse to lead it on. 
His little heart is often terrified ; 
The blush of morning, in his cheek, turns pale ; 
lis pearly dew-drop trembles in his eye; 
His harmless eye ! and drowns an angel there." 

Young's Complaint, Night VIII. v. 249 — 257. 

THE pernicious effects of too much indulgence to 
children are, in general, obvious to all but the over- 
fond parent. The neglect of a little salutary discipline, 
during the period of youth, proves indeed, very fre- 



42 EVALINE. NO. * 

quently tlie bane of happiness throughout every after- 
stage of life. It is, however, an evil which proceeds 
not from corrupt dispositions, but is rather what might 
almost be called an amiable weakness. Yet it ought to 
be carefully guarded against, even for the sake of the 
objects so dearly beloved. 

We seldom fail to find a child losing the regard of 
every one else, just in proportion as he receives im- 
proper indulgence from his parents. He, of course, 
becomes untoward, haughty, and petulant ; and is in 
danger of growing up, like Esau, with a hand raised 
against every one, and every one's hand upraised against 
him. Accustomed to the gratification of all his desires, 
he can ill brook control or disappointment, and is apt 
to become impetuous upon every occassion of restraint 
and provocation, either real or imaginary. 

The lasting influence of these intemperate early 
habits too often mars the happiness of social connexions. 
From them proceed the turbulent and overbearing hus- 
band, and the self-willed, undutiful wife. It is, there- 
fore, the duty of the guardians of youth, as they love 
them and prize their future prosperity, to guard a- 
gainst this fatal error. They ought, also, to watch over, 
and study, the different dispositions of their minds, 
and to endeavour, accordingly, to arrange their mode 
of individual treatment. — 

Evaline was the only daughter of respectable par- 
ents. Engagements in an extensive business kept her 
father much from home, and her mother was of a 
weakly and delicate^constitution. Evaline was their all, 



and their affection for her knew no bounds. She 
was, therefore, brought up with every indulgence which 
this excess of fondness could draw forth. She early con- 
tracted an intimate friendship with Agnes, the daugh- 
ter of a widow lady who had been left with a numerous 
family, and lived in the immediate neighbourhood. 
Agnes was educated with ideas very different from those 
of her young friend, having been, of necessity and from 
principle, taught the profitable lesson of industry and 
frugal economy, and to consider health and intellectual 
powers as given for higher purposes than the amuse- 
ment of the possessor. The mispending of time and 
the misapplication of these precious endowments, was 
impressed upon her mind as being a source of never- 
failing unhappiness and calamity to the infatuated a- 
busers of such inestimable blessings. As she had learn- 
ed, from experience, that useful employment constitutes 
pleasure and is pregnant with advantage, it prevented 
time from appearing tedious; and ennui was only known 
to her by name. 

The two friends were nearly of an age, and hap- 
pened to be married much about the same time. Agnes 
was united to a deserving man, whose dispositions 
exactly coincided with her own. They had not wealth, 
but enjoyed a competency, and were contented and 
happy. E valine became the wife of a worthy man, 
possessed of an ample fortune. Ke was enamoured of 
her beauty, which, in a great measure, blinded him 
to her foibles, although these were but too obvious to 
others. Her conduct after marriage, however, proved 

f 2 



44 EVALINE. NO. 

so glaring, that his eyes, though reluctantly, were at 
last opened. Dress, equipage, and visiting, engrossed all 
her thoughts and attention. Her disappointed husband 
fondly cherished the expectation, that time and reflec- 
tion might bring round a reform ; but in this he found 
himself greatly mistaken. In due time she brought 
him a son. He now hoped that the career of folly 
would be at an end, and flattered himself that her at- 
tention would naturally be turned to an object so inter- 
esting. But no change in the lady's conduct took place. 
She soon informed him that a nurse must be provid- 
ed for the child, because she would undergo neither 
the fatigue nor the confinement which the discharge of 
that duty required. He ventured to expostulate, but was 
upbraided with an unfeeling disregard of her happiness. 
She next became the parent of a lovely daughter, 
without being diverted from her injurious propensities 
by a concern for her tender charge. Matters were 
daily growing worse; and, although she saw her husband 
unhappy, she did not wish to consider herself the 
cause. As she could not endure the want of company, 
she became less select in her choice and more extrava- 
gant in her follies, until the tongue of censure, at length, 
began to exaggerate them into enormous crimes. Her 
husband could no longer remain silent ; and, as she did 
not choose to be admonished, a very unpleasant alterca- 
tion took place. In the course of this, she branded 
him with want of affection, and questioned his ever 
having entertained for her the regard which he profess-, 
ed. She supposed his motives from the beginning were 



V. E VALINE. 45 

mercenary ; and that now, having obtained her fortune, 
lie began to discover his dislike of her person. She 
had, however, been always accustomed to gratify and 
follow her own inclinations, and had never, even when 
a child, met with either check or remonstrance from 
those who had a much better title to apply them, 
had they thought such interference necessary. She 
concluded with adding, that he might spare himself 
the pain and trouble of expressing them, as she was 
not disposed either to listen to his dictates, or attend 
to his admonitions. To the last part of her speech he 
made no reply, but throughout the remainder of the 
day appeared thoughtful and reserved ; and, when he 
addressed her, it was with a studied civility which she 
could not help feeling. Next morning he ordered his 
horse ; and, having put a paper into her hand and told 
her that he would not return until the following day, he 
mounted, and rode off. She hastily broke the seal and 
read the following 

LETTER. 

My Dear Evaline, for such you still are in de- 
spite of your errors and my sufferings, I do not yet 
consider you wicked, although I much fear you are on 
the highway to ruin and infamy. As I, therefore, feel 
myself unequal to the task of combating the evil effects 
of your early habits, I have now resolved to restore you 
to the charge of those under whose auspices they were 
formed. I shall give you these three reasons by which 



46 EVALINE. NO. 

I have been influenced in forming this resolution. The 
first is, that your ruin may not be accomplished while 
under my protection ; the second, a dread of the evil 
consequences your giddy example may have upon our 
little ones ; and the third, a desire of mutual peace. — 
Alas ! how soon have my high-formed hopes of conju- 
gal felicity passed away like a morning cloud, and left 
me forlorn and wretched ! My house is become a scene 
of riot, and the beloved of my bosom cannot spare an 
hour's attention to a fond husband and his helpless chil- 
dren. 

I shall, however, satisfy you that my motives in 
forming the connexion have been every thing but mer- 
cenary. You shall carry back the full sum I received 
as your dowry ; and, as you set a much higher value 
upon it than I do, to this shall be added another not 
unworthy of your acceptance. Although your improv- 
idence and profusion might soon have put it out of my 
power, I have still enough for my own wants, and 
wherewith to educate niy children in the way I ap- 
prove. With these wrecks of my blasted prospects, I 
shall retire to some peaceful seclusion ; where, by de- 
voting my whole attention to the formation of their 
youthful minds, I will endeavour to guard them against 
those habits, by the effects of which I am now over- 
whelmed with distress. The plan of your departure I 
expect will be arranged before my return ; and may 
you ever be happier than is your sorrowful but affec- 
tionate 

Husband, 



V. EVALINE. 47 

E valine was thunder-struck. She had no idea of 
matters being brought to such a crisis. While she 
could not repress a sensation of conscious shame, she, 
at the same time, knew not how to act, as it would be 
so humiliating to make the matter known to any of her 
fashionable acquaintance. She now thought of Agnes, 
who, since her marriage, had been by her forgotten and 
neglected. She instantly set out to call upon her early 
friend, and found her busily engaged in the manage- 
ment of her family, with a lovely child in her arms and 
another standing at her knee. Agnes received her 
with unaffected kindness ; and, after repeated efforts, 
learned from her the object of her visit, and was per- 
mitted to read the letter. This being done, she re- 
mained silent until her friend, having urged her to speak 
her mind freely, begged her counsel and advice. " My 
dear Evaline," said Agnes hesitatingly, " then I must 
say, I think you are to be blamed — very much to be 
blamed. 1 " — " Well then," replied E valine, in faultering 
accents, " allowing that to be the case, what would 
you advise me to do ?" — " Just," answered Agnes, " the 
only thing you now can do to re-establish yourself in 
the regard of your husband and in the esteem of the 
world, and to secure your own happiness and honour. 
You ought to receive your husband on his return, with 
every mark of penitence and submission. You ought 
to make a thousand concessions, though he do not re- 
quire them. But you must first resolve firmly with- 
in yourself, that your future life shall be devote _t to 
make atonement to him for the errors of the past."— 
" But do you think," replied Evaline, with the tears- 



48 EVALINE. NO. 

streaming from her eyes, « that he can receive me with 
forgiveness, or love me as formerly ?" — " Yes," said 
Agnes, " I think he will. His affection seems to be 
still within your reach ; but one step farther might put 
it for ever out of your power. Do but read that letter 
dispassionately, and see what an affectionate husband 
you have rendered unhappy." — 

Evaline was silent, and appeared much humbled. 
She took an affectionate leave of Agnes ; and, return- 
ing home, secluded herself to ponder over the past, and 
to prepare her mind for future conduct. Upon a se- 
rious retrospection, she felt extremely dissatisfied. The 
longer she considered her own imprudences, an in- 
creasing respect for her husband gradually arose in her 
mind, and she now anxiously longed for an opportun- 
ity of making those concessions, to which she at first 
felt so much reluctance. Her husband returned, and, 
before the repentant Evaline had completed an acknow- 
ledgment of her errors, she was inclosed in an embrace of 
forgiveness and love. She has now become as remarkable 
for conjugal affection, maternal solicitude, and every 
social virtue, as she had formerly been for levity and ex- 
travagance. Agnes is her confident and counsellor. She 
is a tender mother, and a dutiful wife. " Her husband 
is known in the gates, her children arise up and call 
her blessed ; her husband, also, and he praiseth her.'" 
—And, in the words of the elegant Thomson, 
" They flourish now in mutual bliss, and rear 
A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves, 
And good, the grace of all the country round." 

M. 



49 



No. VI. 


" if the fav' ring gods 
Direct this arm, if their high will permit 
I pour a prosperous vengeance on the foe, 
I ask for life no longer, than to crown 
The valiant task. Steel then, ye powers of heaven, 
Steel my firm soul with your own fortitude, 
Free from alloy of passion. Give me courage, 
That knows not rage ; revenge, that knows not malice : 
Let me not thirst for carnage but for conquest : 
And conquest gaind, sleep vengeance in my breast, 
Ere iii its sheath my sword." 

Mason's CaractacuSj Arviragus loq. 

THE great and the good alone merit everlasting 
renown. Events may combine, however, to throw a 
lustre over names which would otherwise have remain- 
ed unremembered and unknown. To this Fortuitous 
circumstance is to be ascribed the celebrity which ac- 
companies the character of Hamlet, prince of Denmark. 
An occurrence of his life has been seized by the match- 
less Shakespear ; and, upon that, his magic pen has 
raised a structure which might have immortalized a 
less exalted theme. Without this, the illustrious aven- 
ger might still have remained a popular hero in the 
traditionary tales of Scandinavia ; and his actions, ob- 
scured by splendid fables, have slumbered for ages in 



50 HAMLET. NO. 

the secluded pages of Saxo *, the sprightly historian of 
the achievements of the Northmen. 

The character of Hamlet, when stripped of the 
fairy robe of the bardic loom, and divested of the less 
airy mantle wherein it has been enshrouded by the fa- 
bler's hand, possesses much interest and displays a fine 
combination of wisdom, magnanimity, and virtue, that 
ensures admiration and commands esteem. In this view, 
a biographical sketch of the generous Dane may be ac- 
ceptable to such as are unacquainted with the scenes of 
his checkered and eventful life. 

Hamlet, or according to Saxo, Amleth, was the 
son of Horwendil governor of Jutland, and Gertrude 
daughter of Ruric, who reigned over Denmark, in an 
age long antecedent to the introduction of Christian- 
ity into that country. Horwendil, having succeeded 
his royal father-in-law, fell by the ambitious hands 
of his brother Fengo, who married the queen and 
ascended the polluted throne. The prince, to avoid 

* Saxo, from his extensive erudition, surnamed Grammaticus, 
was born of an illustrious Danish family, about the middle of the 
twelfth century. He was provost of the cathedral church of Roskild, 
and warmly patronized by the learned and warlike Absalon, the cele- 
brated archbishop of Lunden, at whose instigation he wrote the His- 
tory of Denmark. This work, consisting of sixteen books, begins 
from the earliest accounts of the Danish Annals, and concludes with 
the year 1156. It is written in Latin; and, considering the barbarous 
age in which he lived, is in general extremely elegant, but rather too 
poetical for history. It was printed at Soroe, in 1644, by Stephens, 
in two volumes, folio, the last of which is occupied by annotations of 
the editor. Saxo died sometime between the years 1156 and 1160. 
See Stephens' Prolegomena to the Notes on Saxo, p. 8 — 24 ; Holberg, vol. 
I. p. 269; and Mallet's North. Antiq. Vol, I. p. 4. 



the fatal consequences of the usurper's jealousy, affec- 
ted imbecility, and counterfeited the most extravagant 
exhibitions of folly. He is, however, represented as 
entertaining a strong abhorrence of falsehood ; and, 
while constantly framing the most absurd and evasive 
answers, he artfully contrived never to deviate from 
the truth. The parricide, notwithstanding, suspected 
the reality of his madness, and endeavoured by various 
methods to discover the real state of his mind. With 
this view, he ordered his companions to leave him in a 
retired spot, where a young woman had been placed in 
his way, with a design to extort from him a confession 
that his folly was affected. Hamlet would have fallen 
into the snare, if a friend had not secretly given him 
intelligence, of this treachery. Having carried the wo- 
man to a more secret place, he acknowledged to her the 
deception, and required her promise not to betray him. 
To this she readily assented, and faithfully observed the 
obligation. His answers to the questions put to him upon 
his return, while they consisted of the most artful sub- 
terfuges, seemed evidently to mark a disordered under- 
standing. Upon another occasion, Fengo, concluding 
that Hamlet would not conceal his sentiments from 
his mother, concerted a meeting between him and the 
queen. Having ordered one of his minions to conceal 
himself, and, unknown to both, listen to their con- 
versation, he departed from Elsinore, at that time the 
Danish capital. The courtier, at the proper time, re- 
paired to the queen's apartment, and hid himself under 
a heap of straw which, in the earlier ages, was spread 



52 HAMLET. NO. 

over the floors of the great, as an article of refined lux- 
ury. Upon entering the cabinet, Hamlet, suspecting 
the presence of some spy, began, after his usual affec- 
tation of folly, to imitate the crowing of a cock, and 
to shake his arms like wings. While jumping about in 
this ridiculous manner he discovered the traitor under 
the straw ; and, having instantly dispatched him, threw 
out his body to the hogs. 

The prince now avowed to the queen that he only 
personated a fool, and then entered into a spirited ex- 
postulation against her unnatural and flagitious conduct 
and connexion. Interrupting his mother, who had be- 
gun to bewail the folly of her son, " Why,"" he says, 
" do you endeavour to conceal an atrocious crime, by 
an insincere condolence of my insanity; deplore, rather, 
your own errors and infamy, and be concerned to la- 
ment the depravity of your own mind. — On what has 
now past, be silent." — The queen remained mute, but 
was recalled to virtue by his stern admonitions. 

Fengo, after his return to Elsinore, sent Hamlet 
into England under the care of two officers, and re- 
quested the king by a letter to destroy him. The prince 
discovered and altered the perfidious epistle, and the 
two false attendants were, immediately on their arrival, 
put to death by the English king. Hamlet, while in 
England, gave many astonishing proofs of a most trans- 
cendent understanding, and received a promise of ob- 
taining the princess in marriage from her father. At 
the end of the year, he returned to Denmark, and as 
a report of his death had been spread and preparations 



VI. HAMLET. 53 

were making for his funeral, the court was greatly a- 
laraied by his unexpected appearance. Some time 
afterwards, he invited the principal nobles to an enter- 
tainment, and having made them intoxicated, slew 
the whole and burnt the palace to the ground. Dur- 
ing this transaction, he repaired to Fengo's apartment, 
and upbraided him with the murder of his father, whose 
death he now came to avenge. The guilty usurper in- 
stantly started up and seized a sword, but soon fell by 
the vengeful hand of the injured prince. 

When the populace had assembled, on the next 
morning, to view the ruins of the palace, Hamlet 
summoned the remaining nobles, and in a long, ener- 
getic address, explained the motives of his conduct, and 
proved his uncle to have been the assassin of his father. 
He concluded in the following emphatic words; " Tread 
upon the ashes of the monster, who, polluting jlhe wife 
of his murdered brother, joined incest to parricide ; 
and ruled over you with a most oppressive tyranny. 
Heceive me as the minister of a just revenge— as one 
who felt for the sufferings of his father, and of his 
people. . Regard me as the person who has purged the 
disgrace of his country, extinguished the infamy of 
his mother, and freed you from the despotism of a wretch 
whose crimes, if he had lived, would have daily in- 
creased and terminated in your destruction. Acknow- 
ledge my services ; and, if I have merited it, present 
me with the crown. Behold in me these advantages — 
no degenerate person — no parricide, but the rightful 
successor to the throne, and the pious avenger of £ 



54 HAMLET. NO, 

father's murder. I have rescued you from slavery — 
restored you to liberty— re-established your glory. I 
have destroyed a tyrant, and triumphed over an assas- 
sin. My recompense is in your hands. You can es- 
timate the value of my services ; and, in your virtue, 
I rest my hopes of reward." — This speech had the de- 
sired effect. The assembly melted into tears of joy ; 
and, with applausive acclamations, unanimously pro- 
claimed him king. 

Soon after his elevation, Hamlet sailed into Eng- 
land, and ordered a shield to be made on which were 
represented the principal actions of his life. The king 
received him with feigned demonstrations of joy ; and, 
having falsely assured him that his daughter was dead, 
recommended him to repair to Scotland, and make his 
adresses to Hermetruda the dowager-queen, who was 
remarkable for her cruelty and chastity, and had such 
an aversion to marriage, that not one of her suiters had 
ever escaped falling a sacrifice to her vengeance. This 
insidious advice was given that he might fall in the at- 
tempt. In spite of every difficulty, however, and by 
the assistance of his shield, which inspired the lady 
with a favourable opinion of his wisdom and valour, he 
obtained her in marriage, and returned with his bride 
into England. Being informed by the English princess 
to whom he had formerly been betrothed, that her 
father meditated his assassination, he avoided his fate 
by wearing armour under his robe ; and, having slain 
the king in battle, sailed into Denmark, where he soon 
after fell in combat by the hand of Vigleth, the son of 



VL HAMLET. 55 

Ruric, who had seized the government in his absence.-— 
Hamlet, adds the historian Saxo, was a prince, who, 
if his fortune had been equal to his deserts would have 
rivaled the Gods in splendor, and in his actions would 
have exceeded the labours of Hercules. Vide Saxonis 
Grammatici Historic Danicce, Libri XVI. Cur a Steph. 
JoJi. Stephanii i Sores 1644, Tom. I. p. 49—59. 

Adjoining to a royal palace, which stands about 
half a mile from Cronberg in Elsinore, is a garden, 
named Hamlet's Garden, and said, by tradition, to be 
the very spot where the murder of his father was per- 
petrated. The house is of modern date, and situated 
at the foot of a sandy ridge near the sea ; the garden 
occupies the side of the hill, and is laid out in terraces 
rising one above another. See Coxe's Travels in Poland, 
Russia, Sweden, and Denmark, Vol. V. p. 89. 

Many curious observations might be made upon 
the ingenuity and creative imagination of the immortal 
Shakespear, in a review of the foregoing sketch. The 
young woman who was placed to betray the prince, must 
have been the original of Ophelia, and the faithful friend, 
would suggest the good Horatio. The traitor among 
the straw is discovered in Polonius, and the poet's beau- 
tiful closet-scene, is rivaled only by the equally fine 
description of the historian. The ghost of old Hamlet 
is the offspring of the bard's magic powers. Shakes- 
pear seems to have taken the hint of his splendid tra- 
gedy from a translation of Belleforest, a French author's 
History of Hamlet, a work altered from Sazo, and 
embellished by fancy. 

Y. 



56 THE SIMOOM. 



No. VII. 

" Sylphs ! your bold myriads on the withering heath 

Stay the fell Syroc's suffocative breath ; 

Arrest Simoom in his realms of sand, 

The poison' d javelin balanced in his hand ; — 

Fierce on blue streams he rides the tainted air, 

Points his keen eye, and waves his whistling hair ; 

While as he turns, the undulating soil 

Rolls in red waves, and billowy desarts boil." 

Darwin's Botanic Garden, P. I. C. IV. v. 63 — 70, 

WIND, which is a sensible stream of air, is as var- 
ious in its qualities and effects as any other of the phe- 
nomena of nature. According to the gradual increase 
of its force, it has been distinguished by different epi- 
thets. These are, a breeze, a gale, a gust, a storm, a 
tempest, a whirlwind, and a tornado or hurricane. 
The breeze proceeds with a pleasant glide, and is mo- 
derate and gentle in its course : the gale is a breeze of 
increased velocity and power. By a gust is meant a 
blast of moving air of sudden and violent action : the 
storm displays a vehement airy commotion^ forceful 
and boisterous ; and the tempest exceeds the storm by 
an augmented assemblage of impetuosity and destruction. 
The whirlwind sweeps with the tempest's force, and 
rages with a peculiar strength in its irresistible eddies. 
The hurricane includes the storm, the tempest, and 



THE SIMOOM. 



the whirlwind, accompanied by every attribute of ter- 
ror and devastation, which aerial perturbation is ca- 
pable of producing. 

Such distinctive appellations, however, have only 
been applied to discriminate the various gradations of 
power exhibited by the profluent air *. There are 
others, of which the intention is, to denominate the 
range and action of particular winds,- but more fre- 
quently to point out their pestilential and baneful in- 
fluence. As those of a hurtful description are less 
known and familiar to the inhabitants of this genial 
region, the present inquiry will be directed towards 
giving, in brief sketches, an account of the causes, 
phenomena, and effects of those singular and dread- 
ful exhibitions of Nature. 

The noxious winds are chiefly confined to the ster- 
ile climes of the East, and have been described by 
travelers under various names. The Simoom is a 
hot-wind which, periodically, blows in the desarts of 
Africa, and other extensive arid regions. It proceeds 
in a track of about twenty yards in breadth, and its 
elevation seldom exceeds twelve feet. A terrific red- 
ness of the air precedes its approach, which may be 



* Air — Common atmospherical air is a compound fluid complete- 
ly inclosing the terraqueous globe. Its physical properties, are iuvisi- 
bility, fluidity, want of taste and smell, gravity, and elasticity; its 
chemical, the power of promoting combustion, and of maintaining 
the life of animals that respire it. One hundred parts of it are com- 
posed of 22. 57 of oxygen or the gas that supports vitality, and 77. 43 
of azote, nitrogen, or that gas which suppresses combustion and ex- 
tinguishes life. 



58 THE SIMOOM. NO. 

occasioned by the eruption of flame from a distant vol- 
cano, in these vast and impenetrable wastes of sand. 
It appears to be a stream of electricity attended with 
noxious air, and conducted across the parched wilds 
by the attraction of some humid rocks, and always 
leaving behind it a sulphurous and suffocating sensation. 
Its effects on vegetative and animal life are instant and 
dreadful. By the preluding appearances of the sky, 
however, those who are accustomed to traverse these 
dreary solitudes, can readily distinguish its fatal ad- 
vance ; when the only hope of escape is in falling down 
with the face flat upon the ground, and continuing as 
long as possible without drawing in the breath. Should 
the affrighted wanderer inhale the noxious vapour in 
a considerable quantity, instantaneous suffocation en- 
sues ; and the least inspiration of it contaminates the 
lungs, and leaves the sufferer oppressed with asthma, 
and saddened by dejection and melancholy. 

Bruce of Kinnaird, the celebrated traveler, who 
experienced the pernicious effects of the Simoom, in 
his journey through the Desart, gives of it the follow- 
ing picturesque description. " At eleven o'clock, while 
we contemplated with great pleasure the rugged top of 
Chiggre, to which we were fast approaching, and where 
we were to solace ourselves with plenty of good water, 
Idris our guide cried out with a loud voice, ' Fall up- 
on your faces, for here is the Simoom V I saw from 
the south-east a haze come, in colour like the purple 
part of the rainbow, but not so compresssed or thick. 
It did not occupy twenty yards in breadth ; and was 



VII. THE KAMSIN. 59 

about twelve feet high from the ground. It was a kind 
of blush upon the air, and it moved very rapidly ; for 
I scarce could turn to fall upon the ground with my 
head to the northward, when I plainly felt the heat of 
its current upon my face. We all lay flat upon the 
ground as if dead, till Idris told us that it was blown 
over. The meteor, or purple haze which I saw was 
indeed passed, but the light air that still blew was of 
a heat to threaten suffocation. For my part I found 
distinctly in my breast, that I had imbibed a part of 
It, nor was I free of an asthmatic sensation till I had 
been some months in Italy, at the Baths of Poretta, 
nearly two years afterwards *." Such" is the terrible 
influence of the Simoom ; and, although the severity 
of the blast seem to have passed over them instanta- 
neously, yet it continued to blow so as to exhaust the 
solitary travelers, till twenty minutes before five 
o'clock in the afternoon. Its duration, therefore, 
through all its stages, continued nearly six hours, and 
left them in a state of the utmost lassitude and des- 
pondency. 

The Kamsin, or hot-wind of the desart, is a taint- 
ed stream of air, probably, of the same volcanic origin, 
It is common in Egypt, where observation has discov- 
ered that it prevails most frequently in the fifty days 
preceding, and subsequent to, the equinox. Hence it 
has been distinguished by the general name of the 
Wind of Fifty Days. Travelers, particulary Volney, 



* Bruce's Travels in Abyssinia, Edinburgh Edition, 1304, Svo. 
Vol. VI. p, 462. 

H 



g 



60 THE KAMSIN. NO, 

have described it, as being singularly inimical to vege- 
tation and animal life. The heat of the Kamsin is so 
excessive and intolerable, that it has been compared to 
that of an oven at the moment of drawing out the bread. 
When it begins to blow, the atmosphere assumes an 
alarming and tremendous aspect. The sky, at other 
times so clear in that sunny region, becomes dark, 
lowering, and oppressive ; the sun loses its splendour, 
and becomes of a violet colour ; and the air, although 
cloudless, is thick and gray, and loaded with an ex- 
tremely subtile and insinuating dust. This wind, al- 
ways light and rapid,' is not at first remarkably hot, 
but gradually becomes so while it continues. All an- 
imated bodies soon discover it by the changes it pro- 
duces in them ; and the lungs, which a too rarified air 
no longer expands, contract, and experience much un- 
easiness and pain. Respiration is frequent and difficult ; 
the skin, parched and dry, and the body consumed by 
an internal heat. In vain is recourse had to large 
draughts of water ; nothing can restore respiration. 
In vain is coolness sought for ; all bodies in which it 
is usual to find it, deceive the hand that touches them. 
Marble, iron, water, notwithstanding the sun no long- 
er appears, are hot and painfully ardent. 

When the Kamsin blows, the inhabitants of the 
towns and villages shut themselves up in their houses ; 
the streets are then deserted, and there reigns every- 
where a dreary gloom and the dead silence of night. 
The inhabitants of the desarts retire to their tents, and 
to pits dug in the earth, where they remain till the 



Vir. THE KAMSIN. 61 

termination of the destructive heat. Sad is the fate 
of the lonely traveler whom the Kamsin surprises re- 
mote from shelter: he must suffer all its horrible effects, 
and these sometimes are mortal. The danger is most 
imminent when it blows in sudden gusts, the rapidity 
of the wind then increasing the heat to such a degree 
as to cause speedy death, which is a real suffocation. 
The lungs, being empty, become convulsed ; the cir- 
culation is destroyed, and the blood driven, in a full 
current, towards the head and breast, produces a he- 
morrhagy at the nose and mouth after death. 

The Kamsin is most fatal to those of a full habit, 
and to such as have the tone of their muscles destroyed 
by fatigue. To avoid its deadly consequences, it is 
found to be useful to stop up the nose and mouth with 
cloth ; but the most successful preventative is that prac- 
tised by the camels when out in the desart during the 
existence of this wind. These sagacious animals burv 
their noses in the sand, and there retain them till the 
blast be passed. He is wise who imitates their example. 

When death ensues in consequence of inhaling this 
unwholesome vapour, the corpse remains a long time 
warm, swells, turns livid, and soon becomes putrid. 
Plants and shrubs, also, by its extreme aridity, are with- 
ered and stripped of their leaves and foilage, while wa- 
ter sprinkled upon a floor, or on the ground, in a few 
minutes evaporates. The emanations from animal bo, 
dies, that have died in consequence of it, when inhaled, 
crisp the skin, close the pores, and excite that feverish 
heat which is the constant effect of suppressed perspir- 



62 THE HARMATTAX. NO. 

ation. Such are the mortal effects of the Kamsin, the 
scourge of the Lybian desarts *. 

The Harmattan is a remarkable periodical wind 
which blows from the interior of Africa towards the 
Atlantic Ocean. From the subsidence of a white pow- 
der its origin has been ascribed to volcanic eruptions 
from some remote inland mountains. It comes on, 
indiscriminately, at any hour of the day, at any time of 
the tide, or at any period of the moon. It sometimes 
continues only during one day, generally five or six ; 
but has been known to last sixteen, and usually returns 
three or four times every season. It blows with a mo- 
derate force, and is always attended by a fog or haze, 
so dense as to render not very distant objects invisible. 
The sun appears through the gloom only at noon, and 
then is of a pale red, exciting no painful sensation in 
the eye. At the same time, a copious subsidence of 
minute particles from the misty air, makes the grass 
and skins of the negroes assume a white appearance. 

The Harmattan is accompanied by an extreme dry- 
ness, which injures or destroys vegetables of every 
kind. The grass withers, and becomes like hay ; and 
the most vigorous evergreens feel its pernicious influ- 
ence. The branches of the lemon, orange, and lime 
trees droop, their leaves becomes flaccid, decay, and 
are scorched so as to be easily reduced to powder. Its 
parching effects are likewise evident on the external 
parts of the human body. The eyes, nose, lips, and 

* See Volney's Travels in Syria and Egypt, Vol. I. Chap. 4. 



yri. THE HARMATTAN. 63 

palate, are rendered dry and uneasy ; and drink is 
frequently required, not so much to satisfy thirst as 
to remove a painful aridity at the root of the tongue. 
The nose and lips become sore and even chapped; and, 
though the air be cool, yet there is a troublesome sen- 
sation of a prickling heat on the skin. If the wind 
continue a few days, the cuticle peels off, first from 
the hands and face, and afterwards from the whole 
body. 

By Mr Norris *, a gentleman who had frequent 
opportunities of observing its singular properties and 
effects, the Harmattan is said to be salubrious and 
highly conducive to health. Those labouring under 
fluxes, fevers, and similar diseases, or weakened by 
evacuations for the cure of them, often recover during 
its prevalence, when the progress of epidemics and infec- 
tion is generally intercepted. It also heals ulcers and 
cutaneous eruptions, which is probably effected by its 
yielding no moisture to the mouths of the external ab- 
sorbing vessels, by which the action of the other 
branches of the absorbent system is increased to supply 
the deficiency. 

After much preceding wet weather, however, and 
when its track is over an extensive region containing 
much fenny land, the Harmattan becomes loaded with 
corrupt and infectious exhalations from putrid marsh- 



* See his paper upon the subject, in The Philosophical Transac- 
tions, Vol. LXXI. Article, An Account of the Ha-r-mattar.. 



64 THE SAMIEL. NO. 

es, and then it is malignant and fatal to the health 
of mankind. 

The Samiel * is another extraordinary hot-wind of 
powerful and pernicious action. It is peculiar to the 
Desart of Arabia, and usually blows from the north- 
west, during the months of July and August. It is 
said to continue with all its violence, to the very gates 
of Bagdat, but never to affect any person within the 
walls. In some years it does not appear ; in others it 
blows six, eight, or ten times, seldom continuing more 
than a few minutes at once, and passing with the ap- 
parent velocity of lightning. Its approach is preceded 
by a thick haze, which appears like a cloud of dust 
rising out of the north-western horizon, while the rest 
of the air is clear and divested of clouds. The Arabian 
and Persian travelers, immediately upon observing 
this prelusive appearance, throw themselves with their 
faces to the ground, and continue in that position till 
the wind has passed, when it leaves behind it a strong 
sulphureous smell. Its career is so rapid, that if they 
be not careful to take this precaution, and thus receive 
the complete action of the destructive air, the conse- 
quence is instant death. 

When the Samiel has blown over, the most alert 
of the w r anderers of the desart get up, and look around 
them for their companions. If they see any lying mo- 



* See Ives' Voyage from England to India, in 1754; Dr Lind's 
Essay on the Diseases incidental to Europeans in Hot Climates, Part 
II. Chap. I. page 135-6 ; and Analytical Review for February, 1790. 



VII. THE SIROCCO. 65 

tionless, they take hold of a limb and forcibly jerk it, 
and if it separate from the body, it is a sure proof that 
the wind has had its full force. If, on the contrary, 
it do not come away, it is an equally certain sign that 
life remains, although by every appearance the person 
seem to be dead. In that case, they immediately cov- 
er him with clothes, and administer some warm dilut- 
ing liquor to cause a perspiration, which is certainly 
but slowly induced, and counteracts the qualities of 
the poisonous wind. The Samiel is so well known in 
the vicinity of Badgat and Bassora, that the very chil- 
dren speak of it with apprehension and dread. It is, per- 
haps, the same as that described by M. de Beauchamp 
under the name of Seravansum, or, Hot-Wind of the 
Wilderness, which burns the face, impedes respiration, 
strips the trees of their leaves, advances rapidly in a 
straight line, and frequently kills people in six hours. 
The Sirocco * is a periodical hot-wind, blowing 
from the south-east, during the spring months, in Dal- 
matia, Italy, and the Island of Sicily. It is probably 
the remains of the Kamsin or some other of the Af- 
rican poison-winds, but greatly deprived of its aridity 
and malignant influence by its passage over inland 
waters and the intervening sea. The usual period of 
its continuance, which is without rain, is twenty days, 
and it generally ceases at sunset. It is prejudicial to 
vegetation, by parching the buds and destroying the 



* Fords' Travels in Dalrnatia, p. 277 ; and Brydone's Tour in 
Sicily and Malta, Vol. I. Letter XXIX. p. 104, 190-7. 
VOL. I. I 



6& ON ISAIAH, NO. 

foliage ; but, to its influence are ascribed, a plentiful 
fishing and a luxuriant harvest on the mountains. It 
usually sets in with a whirlwind ; and the air is then 
thick and oppressive, occasioning a violent perspira* 
tion, an unpleasant languor, and a general depression 
of spirits. To shun its effects, people shut up them- 
selves in their houses, and by an incessant sprinkling 
of water, endeavour to maintain a cool temperature of 
the air. By observing this precaution, its baneful in- 
fluence is easily avoided. D. 



No. VIII. 

' ' Howe, Pagan dreams ! Too oft poetic youth. 

In Grecian robe hath stalk' d on British plains ; 
With hackney d fiction deck'd the song of truth, 

And pranced with freedoms air in classic chains." 

Gisborne's Poems, Elegy on Mr Mason, p. 141. 

CHRISTIANITY, above every other system of 
faith, is calculated to promote the interests and happi- 
ness of man. There is nothing great, or good, or 
beneficial, or admirable, or sublime, or heavenly, with 
which it does not make him acquainted. In the Scrip- 
tures, the sacred depository of its doctrines, are un- 
folded, to his veneration, the character and goodness 
of the Incomprehensible Being, by whom the universe 
was called into existence, and by whose omnipotence 



VIII. CHAPTERS XXXIV. AND XXXV. 67 

it is upheld in order and beauty. There, also, he dis- 
covers the origin of things, and the entrance of the 
human race upon the stage of time. By them he is, 
likewise, taught the divine original of that immortal 
spirit which animates his frame, and directs his mind 
in its researches after knowledge, wisdorit, and bliss. 

The Scriptures abound with maxims, the most 
wise and appropriate, for the guidance of conduct. 
They require the discharge of no duty without, at the 
same time, pointing out the means that forward its 
performance, and exhibiting to its accomplishment the 
reward of immortal felicity. They are abundant in 
examples of dignity and virtue ; — they direct to the 
paths of true honour, and the unerring way to fame 
and greatness ; — they detail, with sympathetic feeling, 
the error of primeval man ; — and they enable his ruin- 
ed progeny to contemplate, with exultation and confi- 
dence, that stupendous event which consummated the 
divine benevolence, and won an everlasting triumph to 
the Messiah's reign. 

But the Scriptures, while they pledge a blissful re- 
ward to the wise and virtuous, denounce the most 
dreadful and irresistible judgments against the profane 
and impious, — the worthless and the profligate, — a- 
gainst those who deride virtue, exult in wickedness, 
and contemn the omnipotent. 

Exclusively of their moral tendency, however, the 
inspired writings are supremely excellent as authentic 
records of the achievements of the first nations, as 
beautiful pictures of manners, and as elegant and sub- 

i 2 



6S ON ISAIAH, NO. 

lime specimens of language in all its applications and 
forms. " 1 have carefully and regularly perused the 
Holy Scriptures," says an exalted scholar *, " and am 
of opinion, that they contain, independently of a divine 
original, more true sublimity, more exquisite beauty, 
purer morality, more important history, and finer strains 
of poetry and eloquence, than could be collected, with- 
in the same compass, from all other books that were 
ever composed in any age, or in any idiom. 11 — 

Among the other illustrious characters who have 
written by divine inspiration, Isaiah maintains a con- 
spicuous place. Being of royal consanguinity, he be- 
came conversant with men of the highest rank, of the 
greatest abilities, and of the most polished elocution. 
His style is, therefore, noble, nervous, sublime, and 
llorid ; his thoughts profound, and his expressions lof- 
ty. His book, besides in many other passages of equal 
grandeur and eloquence, contains, in the thirty-third 
and thirty-fourth chapters, a most remarkable prophe- 
cy. This forms an entire, regular, and beautiful Po- 
em, consisting of two distinct parts. Of these, the 
first contains a tremendous denunciation of destruction 
against the enemies of Christianity; and, in consequence 
of this event, a complete restoration is promised, in 
the second, to the Church of God. 

The Prophet introduces the subject by a most im- 
pressive exordium, wherein he invokes universal nature 



* Sir William Jones. — See the Memoirs of his Life, Writings, and 
Correspondence, by Lord Teignmouth ; London Edition, 1807, 8vo, 

p. 454-5. 



VIII. CHAPTERS XXXIV. AND XXXV. 69 

to the observation of these great events. He then pro- 
claims the decree of Jehovah concerning the extirpa- 
tion of those nations against whom " his wrath is kind- 
led;" and amplifies this act of destructive vengeance 
by a very admirable selection of splendid and awful 
imagery. He first exhibits a truly martial picture of 
the slaughter and havoc that follow a victory ; and 
then, taking a bolder flight, grandly illustrates his de- 
scription with representations drawn from the Mosaic 
chaos, displaying, as it were, the total subversion of 
the universe. A different image immediately succeeds : 
a solemn sacrifice, of numerous victims, is celebrated ; 
Jehovah himself takes a part in this magnificent scene, 
and every circumstance is brought directly before the 
eyes. The haughty, ferocious, and insolent chiefs of 
Bozra, Idumea, and other nations inimical to God, 
are denoted by various figures of goats, rams, bulls, 
and other different animals. A succession of new and 
picturesque images are borrowed from the overthrow of 
Sodom to demonstrate the consummation of the same 
portentous event. This is, also, prefigured by the 
scenery of a vast and solitary desart, the description of 
which the prophet afterwards improves, diversifies, and 
enlarges, by the addition of several important circum- 
stances of certain analogy and connexion. 

The second part is constructed upon similar prin- 
ciples, and exhibits a beautiful contrast to the preced- 
ing scene. The imagery possesses every advantage of 
ornament and variety ; and, like the other, is of ex- 



70 



ON ISAIAH. 



and perspicuous. In the first, the poetical figures are 
chiefly derived from Sacred History ; in this, they are 
almost entirely taken from the objects of Nature. The 
divine glory and majesty are portrayed by the beauty 
of Lebanon, Carmel, and Sharon ; while, by the wa- 
tering and cultivation of a barren and rocky soil, are 
denoted the divine grace and spiritual endowments. 
The prophecy may, therefore, be regarded as alluding, 
in many places, to the first coming of the Messiah ; 
but it is evidently one of those which are not yet com- 
pletely fulfilled, and of which the greater part, at least, 
is still deposited in the secret counsels of the Most High*. 
Of this singularly beautiful and sublime specimen 
of Hebrew poesy, the following metrical imitation is 
given in the hope that, to some readers, it may not be 
unacceptable. 

I. 

Attend ye people ! let the tribes draw near ! 
Be earth attentive ! all its dwellers, hear ! 
The universe, and every varied race, 
Creation's sons, the habitants of space ! 

Lo ! on the nations is Jehovah's ire, 
Upon their armies burns his fury's fire : 
They are devoted, ne'er to rise again ; 
To havoc giv'n, and numbered with the slain. 

* See Bishop Lowth's New Translation of Isaiah, Vol. I. p. 
.103-7; Vol. II. p. 230-7; and his Lectures on the Sacred Poetry 
of the Hebrews, Vol. II. p. 70, SO. 



YUI. CHAPTERS XXXIV. AND XXXV. 71 

The slaughtered ones, innumerous, strew the ground, 

Their mangled corses taint the air around ; 

The copious carnage swells a crimson flood, 

And the high mountains melt in streams of blood , 

As from the vine the sere leaf drops away, 
Or blighted fig falls from the bending spray, 
So shall the host celestial be dissolved, 
The empyrean like a scroll convolved, 
For bared in heaven is the avenging brand 
That gleams tremendous in Jehovah's hand, 
Lo ! it shall burst, in judgment, to the fate 
Of Edom's race, and people of his hate, 

Abundant deaths Jehovah's falchion sate, 
It pamper' d is with marrow of the fat, 
With gore of goats, and blood of slaughter' d lambs, 
And with the fatness of the reins of rams : 
For victims bleed in Bozra's destined plain, 
In Edom's fields are hecatombs of slain. 
And the wild goats with them shall prostrate fall ; 
The bullocks, and the bulls together, all : 
With their own blood be drench'd their native land, 
And fat shall, there, enrich the dusty strand. 
For, of the Lord, this is the vengeful day, 
When Zion's guardian shall her ills repay. 

Her streams to pitch, her dust to sulphur turn; 
As blazing pitch, shall Idumea burn. 



72 ON ISAIAH, Nl 

By night or day its flame shall never die, 

Her volumed smoke shall cloud the swelt'ring sky. 

From age to age the drear deserted clime 

No man shall pass while glides incessant Time. 

The hedge-hog, there, and pelican shall roam, 

The owl and raven find a genial home. 

The line of ruin o'er her, wide, shall pass, 

Her parched plains, the plumb of emptiness. 

Her kingdom's glory lost they shall deplore, 

And all her princes fail for evermore. 

Emblossom'd thorns shall deck her palace' walls, 

The rank weed carpet her embattled halls ; 

And, there, shall dragons join in fell resort, 

The ostrich' daughters find a lonely court. 

The jackal, there, the mountain-cat shall meet, 

And satyr fierce his savage fellow greet ; 

There, shall the screech-owl rear a place of rest, 

The night-bird lay, and brood within her nest, 

With shelt'ring wing o'ershade her young ones, there,, 

And mated vultures in dire groupes repair. 

Consult, and read Jehovah's book of fate, 
These all are there, no female lacks her mate. 
Jehovah's mouth hath giv'n the high command, 
His spirit call'd the congregated band ; 
Their lot for them, cast hath his hand divine, 
Their portion meted by the measuring line ; 
And they the land shall occupy for ay, 
From race to race, while ages fleet away. 



VIII. CHAPTERS XXXIV. AND XXXV. 

II. 

The waste, the desart shall with gladness beam, 
The wilderness with gay luxuriance teem : 
It flourish shall, as blooms a beauteous rose ; 
The streamy plain be glad where Jordan flows ; 
Of Lebanon the beauty > shall it fill, 
Of Carmel's height, and Sharon's rosy hill : 
These shall Jehovah's matchless grandeur see, 
Their glory's source, and God's excellency. 

Be stout, ye feeble ; firm, ye tottering throng ; 
Ye faint of heart, be dauntless, be ye strong : 
Behold your God ! come will his vengeance due ; 
He will avenge ; God will deliver you. 
Then vision bright the sightless eye shall cheer, 
Be op'd to sound the unattending ear. 
Leap shall the lame, as skips the mountain roe, 
And from the dumb, harmonious anthems flow. 
For gushing streams shall wash the banks of sand. 
And torrents roll along the desart land. 
Each glowing clime shall spread its rippling pool, 
The thirsty soil its fountains bubbling cool : 
And in the dens where hideous dragons lay, 
There, shall the grass, the reed, the bulrush play. 

The highway there, shall be a holy way ; 
No foot impure along the road shall stray : 
There walking, He shall lead the lone with care ; 
No silly pilgrim can be wilder'd there. 

VOL, T. E 



74< ON ISAIAH, CHAPTERS XXXIV. AND XXXV. NO. 

No lion fierce shall haunt the heavenly path, 
Nor beast of prey bestain its sides with death ; 
None shall be there ; but, free from doubt and woe, 
There, the redeem'd shall walk, secure and slow. 
Yea, shall return Jehovah's ransomM race, 
And come, with triumph, to his Holy Place. 
Perpetual joy shall on their foreheads be, 
Their gladness great, and pure their ecstacy. 
No sighing there, nor grief shall cloud the soul, 
While sweeps the car of Time, and countless ages roll. 



No. IX. 

" Haste ihee, Nymph, and bring with thee 

Jest and youthful Jollity, 

Quijjs, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, 

Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, 

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 

And love to live in dimple sleek ; 

Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 

And Laughter holding both his sides." 

Milton's L'Allegro, v. 25 — 32. 

EMOTIONS of delight originate in causes remark- 
ably different. The contemplation of what is beau- 
tiful, or useful, or generous, or good, excites very 
pleasing sensations in the mind. There is also a kind 
of agreeable feeling, which arises from the observation 



OX HUMOUR. 



of what is droll, wild, waggish, or ludicrous. We 
fondly cherish all those ideas that contribute to the in- 
citement of mirth, and dwell with congratulation upon 
the objects which furnish occasion of joy. Our en- 
deavours, at the same time, are employed with an 
equal solicitude to withdraw the attention from what- 
ever tends to lessen or annihilate our pleasurable en- 
joyments. But there must be the absence of care, of 
pain, of grief, and there must be a congeniality of 
feeling, a lively hilarity, and a naturally joyous pro- 
pensity toward gladsome affections in the heart, before 
a person be capable of relishing the sensations of gay- 
ety, gladness, and glee. 

The mirthful part of mankind are, doubtless, very 
amiable. They diffuse a cheerfulness through society, 
give a sprightliness to conversation, and furnish inno- 
cent festivity with a fascinating zest. It requires, 
however, to render the frolicsome disposition accepta- 
ble, that its sallies be only attempted at proper seasons, 
applied to fit objects, and employed on suitable occa- 
sions. A ludicrous narrative or a ridiculous frolic will 
sometimes produce the effect of dissipating the gravity 
of a very demure or serious mind, which, when thus* 
overcome, not unfrequently yields to a levity of equal 
excess to its former solemnity. Genuine humour will, 
indeed, make the benevolent, the compassionate, the 
philosophic, the sage, regard with insuppressible en- 
joyment even the distressful embarrassment and con- 
fusion of those whom they venerate and love. Let us 

k2 



76 ON HUMOUR, NO. 

inquire into the nature of humour, and endeavour to 
trace the influence of its displays upon the mind. 

The term Humour, as expressive of that disposi- 
tion of mind which inclines a person, by the exhib- 
ition of grotesque imagery, to excite merriment or 
jocularity, has been said to be peculiar to our own 
language. In its original signification, it denominates 
moisture in general ; and, in a restricted sense, the 
moisture of animal bodies. As the temper of the mind 
is supposed to depend upon the state of the corporeal 
fluids, humour has come to be regarded as similar in im- 
port with temper and disposition. As it is something, 
however, which is capricious and whimsical, and may 
either be agreeable or disagreeable, it is more proper- 
ly to be denominated the disease of a disposition. The 
indulgence of petulancy or sullenness procures a man 
the character of ill-humoured, while frequent fits of 
cheerfulness obtain him to be reckoned a good-humour- 
ed and pleasant being. 

In the present acceptation of the word, Humour is 
often used to point out that quality of the imagination, 
which bears a strong resemblance to wit. This, how- 
ever, expresses something more designed, concerted, 
and artificial : humour, is more wild, loose, extrava^ 
gant, and fantastical. It comes upon a man by fits,, 
which he can neither command nor restrain, and is not 
at all times perfectly consistent with true politeness. 
It has been regarded as more diverting than wit ; but 
wit is certainly more dignified, and gives an airy agree- 
ableness to the propriety of a just sentiment, and a 



JX. ON HUMOUR. 77 

keenness to the edge of a merited satire. The object 
of the former is seldom directed farther than to excite 
or gratify a momentary sally of mirth, the latter has 
been used with success in correcting the follies and vic- 
es of mankind. For this purpose it is proper to mingle 
with reprehension, the smiles of good nature, the pleas- 
antries of ludicrous association, and the picturesque 
sketchings of a sportive fancy. Humour is agreeable, 
when it is so happily diffused as to give the grace of 
novelty to domestic scenes and the common occurrences 
of life. It is proper, when it never outsteps the mo- 
desty of nature, nor raises merriment or wonder by 
the violation of truth — when its figures neither divert 
by distortion, nor amuse by aggravation. It is excel- 
lent, when it copies life with so much fidelity that its 
inventions can hardly be detected,— when its exhibitions 
have so much of an original air, that it is difficult to 
suppose them not merely the product of the imagination. 
It is the practice of humorists to seize some story 
or historical narration, and, adopting only the leading 
circumstance, to found on it a series of fictions, of a 
nature entirely whimsical and ludicrous, but which take 
effect by a kind of agreeable extravagance and the cre- 
ation of a grotesque imagery ingrafted upon the sub- 
ject. It is, indeed, the essence of genuine humour to 
dwell upon and enlarge to definite dimensions those 
parts of character which are susceptible of ridicule and 
laughable association, and it is the more appropriate, if 
the sly simplicity of its strokes be inflicted with a seem- 



78 ON HUMOUR. NO. 

ing unconsciousness of intention, while it renders them 
more exquisite to attentive and sagacious observers. 

Hilario was a youth of much humour and frolic ; 
but his jests were always delicate and agreeable, and 
his wildest pranks, though sufficiently ludicrous, were 
playful and harmless. When his father, who was a 
worthy man of a sedate disposition, used to remind him 
that his mirth might betray him into levity, or his wag- 
gery terminate in mischief, he seldom failed to repay 
the admonition with an apologetic narrative, in gener- 
al abundantly droll. Among others the following, 
founded upon an incident which occurred to the good 
old man in his youth, never failed to dissipate his gra- 
vity, and to amuse the company, who well knew its 
application. I must relate to you, my dear father, he 
would say, the love-adventure of your ancient friend 
Sereno, who is almost as good and as grave a man as 
yourself; and thus he began: 

" Sereno, you know, after he had been for some 
time settled in the world, discovered, as many others 
had done before him, that a good wife would be a help 
meet for him. After a little consideration upon the 
subject, he found out that he had actually fallen in love 
with PSacidia, an amiable young lady of dispositions 
very similar to his own. As he was rather a diffident 
man, he felt considerably embarrassed when he came 
to that part of the business which was to disclose his 
intentions to the fair one herself. In frequent attempts 
he failed. His modesty and irresolution always occa- 
sioned his allowing the favourable moment to pass, A 






IX# ON HUMOUR. 79 

friend, however, succeeded at last in obtaining his se- 
cret from him, and at the same time promised every 
assistance in his power to forward the match. For 
this purpose he invited to his house a number of young 
folks to a tea-party, among whom were the lady and 
her admirer, by delay and disappointment now made 
deeply enamoured. When tea was served, the beaus 
of course were all alert in the service of the ladies. 
Sereno, as his kind host had previously concerted, 
was seated just beside her whom he wished to be 
near ; and, in his ow r n calm deliberate way, proceeded 
to hand her a cup. As mischief would have it, howev- 
er, something, no matter what, caused his hand to 
give a sudden jerk, when a pretty large drop of very 
hot tea was spilt upon the lady's robe of thin muslin. 
Whether it proceeded from her fear lest the grave beau 
should prostrate himself at her feet, or whether the tea 
penetrated farther than it ought to have done, is un- 
certain. Whatever, I say, was the cause, the fair 
sufferer was obliged to voice the monosyllable Oh ! in 
a tone neither so soft, so low, nor so sweet as she af- 
terwards, perhaps, could have wished. The modest 
youth was greatly disconcerted, and to conceal his em- 
barrassment turned round to snuff the candle. Rare, 
says the poet, are solitary woes. He cut too deep ; 
and, to his extreme vexation, out went the light and 
left the company in obscurity, for they did not place tw r o 
candles upon the table when Sereno was young. Con- 
fused and in considerable trepidation, he rushed to the 
fire to relight the extinguished taper ; but, instead, of 



80 ON HUMOUR. NO, 

using a piece of paper, he held it out to a brisk fire, 
into the middle of which;, to his utter consternation, 
it suddenly dropped, and a splendid illumination en- 
sued. To this was added the harmonious concert of a 
favourite puppy, which happened to be in the way of 
the melting grease as it issued from the grate in various 
directions, together with the bawling of frighted fe- 
males, who were in terror lest the house should be set 
on fire, and convert the business into a tragedy. But 
the meek man's mortifications did not terminate here. 
In the middle of his perplexity he resolved to leave the 
room, and accordingly went to take up his hat ; but 
misfortune seldom deserts the unhappy. Instead of his 
own, he seized the hat of a gay lady, and this was 
sprucely ornamented with a towering plume and the 
proper quantity of ribbons. Inconscious of his capital 
embellishments, he hasted to the door, and would soon 
have found himself upon the street had not a boy's mar- 
ble arrested his progress on the stair. . Having, in a 
luckless moment, set his foot upon this fatal object, a 
sudden slip produced a rapid descent of his centre of 
gravity, and made an unoffending part salute the boards 
with such a hard and weighty thump as to alarm the 
whole house. Every body ran to see what could be 
the matter. To the surprise of some and the wick- 
ed amusement of others, here was found poor Sereno 5 
sitting with less composure upon his countenance than 
usual, whatever might be the chevaleresque appearance 
it derived from the fair one's hat and feathers. — This 
scene of misadventures, however, proved of advantage 



IX. ON HUMOUR. SI. 

to the good man in the end. Not long after, he found 
an opportunity of soliciting the forgiveness of the mild 
Placidia for the pain and alarm he had occasioned her ; 
but, while he was endeavouring to lay the blame upon 
the unsteadiness of his hand, he muttered something a- 
bout the agitation of his heart. This had nearly led 
him into another predicament, when his kind friend 
extricated him by making the lady acquainted with the 
worthy man's intentions. The grand point was now 
gained ; and, in due time, the excellent pair were unit- 
ed in love and in matrimony. — They are now happy 
in their mutual esteem and affection, and are particu- 
lary fortunate in having a son, who is as waggish as 
they themselves are benevolent and wise." 

E. 



No. X. 

" O'er the dear urn, where glorious Wallace sleeps. 
True Valour bleeds and patriot Virtue weeps. 
Son of the lyre, what high ennobling strain, 
Wliat meed from thee shall generous Wallace gain ! 
Who greatly scorning an Usurper's pride, * 
Bared his brave breast for liberty, and died." 

Langhorne's Genius and Valour, v. 255 — 26'0. 

" Look at that,"" said Angloscotus pointing to a par- 
ticular spot of a Map of the Globe which lay upon the 
table before us — « look at that little spot, and tell me 
vou, I. T, 



82 ON COURAGE. NO. 

what ideas the contemplation suggests." Inconscious- 
ly my eye was directed toward the place. This was a 
small inclustered groupe. It was the British Isles. I 
felt that it was the land of my forefathers ; and, while 
a glow of pride suffused my countenance, the thrill of 
exultation pervaded my breast. We began to compare 
the little Land of the Ocean, in extent, power, wealth, 
and renown, with the other kingdoms of the world. 
In regard to the first, when placed in comparison with 
the other nations, it resembled the inconsiderable speck 
of a convolving cloud amid the wide expanse of the sky. 
But it required no reflection to discover that her power 
was mighty and extended to the remotest lands — that 
her wealth was immense and matchless, — and her fame 
interminable in its course as the unmeasured path of 
the billow of the boundless deep, or the unbridled ca- 
reer of the gale of heaven. 

From a review of these facts a wide and various 
inquiry naturally originates, " Whereon is founded, and 
what hath produced the excessive splendour of Britain, 
the First of the Nations and Queen of the Seas ? — It 
hath, doubtless, arisen from her local situation — from 
her natural resources — and from the superior energies 
of her exalted progeny, directed by wisdom and fos- 
tered by magnanimity ; and this shall be the subject of 
the present speculation. 

What, then, is Magnanimity? It is the aggre- 
gate of every sublime and generous virtue that can in- 
vigorate or ennoble the heart of human-kind. It is 
Fortitude. By this is meant — that firm and serene 



X. ON. COURAGE. S3 

habit of the mind, which either tempers its fears, or 
enables it to encounter calamity and danger with e- 
quanimity — that lofty principle by which the soul is 
fortified to suffer with resignation, or conducted to en- 
terprise with the calmness of confidence and the ardour 
of zeal. In peril and misfortune, it is the inspirer of 
good hopes, the source of expedients, and the parent 
of tranquillity. It is, indeed, the vigour of heroism, 
and the energy of wisdom — the virtue of the valiant, 
and the excellency of the good and the great. 

Genuine Fortitude does not consist in that consti- 
tutional courage, which has rendered some men bold 
and dreadless in the most atrocious attempts, and is 
only the rashness of a fool or the hardihood of a ruffian. 
The one is the offspring of reason and reflection, which 
incites to the best and noblest achievements ; and, fill- 
ing the mind with cheerfulness and composure, fits a 
man to act without confusion, anxiety, or trepidation. 
The other is the child of an ardent temper, inspired 
by temerity and cherished by inconsideration. 

Human life is so full of uncertainty and so liable to 
disaster, that, without Fortitude, there can be little 
enjoyment or felicity. Being, therefore, necessary to 
the support of virtue and a proper discharge of duty, 
it is chiefly by condition and event that its exercise is 
produced or its operation required. Observation, in- 
deed, by scanning the motions of mind, may discover 
the existence of this inborn principle ; but, until it be 
commoved by an impulsive cause, the appropriate traits 
which demonstrate its character may remain latent and 

l 2 



84 ©N COURAGE. N0. 

inert. It is, also, by the absence of such excitements, 
that many a spirit of ethereal temper has been doomed 
to wane within the breast of its inconscious possessor. 

As a mental quality, Fortitude involves every mag- 
nanimous attribute. These may be recognised in the 
various epithets which denominate the more generous 
affections. That virtue may be termed courage, which 
suppresses fear in perilous action and animates to intre- 
pidity amid the dangers of arduous enterprise, — pa- 
tience, which enables us to undergo affliction, or disap- 
pointment without repining or regret, — forbearance, 
which resolves the mind to endure indignity, contume- 
ly, or oppression, without resentment or malice, — and 
constancy or resolution, which encourages perseverance 
amid difficulties, and firmness in pain and distress. Un- 
der each of these heads, the influence of this manly af- 
fection upon conduct, will afford matter of consideration 
in several essays; and what remains of this, shall, there- 
fore, be directed to the regard of the former distinction, 
namely that of active Fortitude, or Courage. 

Fortitude has been regarded as synonymous with 
courage : the former, however, is more general and al- 
ways includes an assemblage of virtues ; the latter is pe- 
culiar and may be a vice. Virtuous courage is the exer- 
tion of fortitude ; vicious, is only temerity or fierceness. 
Constitutional vigour may generate hardiness in the hu- 
man heart, and habit confirm it into courage ; but true 
fortitude is the genuine production of piety and moral 
goodness. Existing only as an inconsiderate regard to 
consequences, or as a daring contempt of danger, cour-> 



X, ON COURAGE. 85 

age dignifies brutes and is the generous passion of ir- 
rationals. " Hast thou given the horse strength ?" 
says the Eastern Sage, " hast thou clothed his neck 
with thunder ? Canst thou make him afraid as a grass- 
hopper? The glory of his nostrils is terrible. He 
paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength : he 
goeth on to meet the armed men. He mocketh at fear, 
and is not affrighted ; neither turneth be back from the 
sword. The quiver rattleth against him — the glitter- 
ing spear and the shield. He swalloweth the ground 
with his fierceness and rage : neither believeth he that 
it is the sound of the trumpet. He saith among the 
trumpets, Ha ! Ha ! and he smelleth the battle afar 
off — the thunder of the captains and the shouting*.'" 

Courage is necessary to the support of a dignified 
character in the faithful discharge of the duties of civil 
life. As a mental trait it is absolutely indispensable in 
the warrior, and in this application it is recognised in 
several epithets of nearly the same signification. It 
is expressed by the terms valour, heroism, prowess, 
bravery, and others descriptive of a gallant spirit. The 
display of this being only required in certain situations 
and by the occurrence of particular incidents it is then 
that the proper exertion of vigour is to be honoured 
with the appellation of true courage. In repelling per- 
sonal insult ; in redressing our own, or the wrongs of 
those we love and esteem ; and in discharging the dif- 
ficult duties of justice and patriotism, it is, perhaps, 

* Job, Chapter XXXIX. v. 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, and 2& 



S6 



ON COURAGE, 



not easy to distinguish between the intrepid activity 
of genuine courage, and the ardent impulse of revenge. 
But the heart that beats to honest valour is never vin- 
dictive, and the arm directed by duty is only terrible 
to the wicked, the noxious, and the oppressive. The 
vanquished is no longer the foe of the brave ; but ev- 
ery energy of his soul is exerted against the enemies of 
his race, the invaders of his rights, and the assailers 
of the independency of his country. There is a dignified 
sublimity in the picture of a magnanimous veteran en- 
deavouring to infuse a generous intrepidity into the 
mind of a spirited youth. It is attempted by allusions 
to the deeds of his progenitors, and the feats of his own 
achievement, which contain a display of the noblest he- 
roism, to be equaled, in modern days, only by the vi- 
gorous 'gallantry of a British warrior. " We sat," says 
the Bard of Selma, " and heard the sprightly harp at Lu- 
bar's gentle stream. Fingal himself was next to the foe; 
and listened to the tales of bards. His godlike race were 
in the song, the chiefs of other times. Attentive, leaning 
on his shield, the king of Morven sat. The wind whist- 
led through his aged locks, and his thoughts are of the 
days of other years. Near him, on his bending spear, 
my young, my lovely Oscar stood. He admired the 
king of Morven : and his actions were swelling in his 
soul. " Son of my son, 1 ' begun the King, " O Oscar, 
" pride of youth ! I saw the shining of thy sword and 
{4 gloried in my race. Pursue the glory of our fathers, 
" and be what they have been ; when Trenmor lived, 
" the first of men, and Trathal the father of heroes. 



X. ON COURAGE. §7 

(i They fought the battle in their youth and are the 
" song of bards. O Oscar ! bend the strong in arms ; 
<« but spare the feeble hand. Be thou a stream of many 
" tides against the foes of thy people ; but like the gale 
" that moves the grass to those who ask thine aid. So 
4i Trenmor lived ; such Trathal was ; and such has 
" Fingal been. My arm was the support of the injur- 
" ed; and the weak rested behind the lightning of my 
" steel. — O Oscar ! be thou like the age of Fingal. 
" Never seek the battle nor shun it when it comes '*." 
Courage cannot exist but in a disinterested mind. 
It is ever actuated by a supreme disregard of private 
advantage, and is most arduous in the pursuits of pa- 
triotism. When the path of duty is pointed out, and 
an object of public benefit exhibited to its enterprise, 
true courage instantly proceeds to weigh the difficulties 
that may retard the progress of action, to calculate the 
means necessary to accomplish the end, and to ascertain 
the dangers that impend its execution. It then enters 
upon the attempt with the circumspection of wisdom, 
and the inflexible but ardent persistency of grand and 
consummate heroism. Such a character was displayed 
by Wallace, the Scottish patriot, when his more nu- 
merous enemies dispatched two friars to his camp with 
the proffer of terms. " Return," said the intrepid 
Chief, " and tell your masters, that we came not here 
a to treat, but to assert our rights, and to set Scot- 

* Ossian's Poems., Fingal, Book III. towards the end. 



SS ON COURAGE. NO, 

" land free : Let them advance, they will find us pre- 
" pared *." 

The heart of the valiant, however, is not insensi- 
ble to the meed of applause, nor disregarded of the 
honours that express the worth and dignity of a well- 
earned renown. He contemplates the trophies of his 
prowess with the exultation of honest pride, and re- 
gards them as incentives to more energetic exploits. 
The brave consider the acquisition of fame, only as an 
obligation whereby they become devoted to the gener- 
al weal ; and, inspired by this exalted spirit, they live 
—they act — and they die. 

It has been said that temerity or fierceness may be 
misrepresented as courage. Every day's experience 
demonstrates the truth of the observation. What else 
is that spirit, by fools and wretches denominated hon- 
our, which impels a man to provoke danger without a 
cause, or to murder his friend for a trifle. This is the 
frenzy of ignorance and therage of brutality — the bluster 
of cowards and the malice of ruffians. It is the disgrace 
of true honour, and the bane of civilized society, con- 
demned alike by the brave, the wise, and the good. 

The history of human action exhibits illustration 
of the finest displays of splendid valour, directed to the 
accomplishment of the noblest purposes, and success- 
ful in the best of designs. Courage, however, may 
be degraded by the impression of ignoble manners ; 
and, being susceptible of influence from degenerate opin- 

* Dalrymple's Annals of Scotland, 8vo. Ed. Vol. I. p. 274-5. 



X. ON COURAGE. 89 

ion, may deviate into an affection, the proper defini- 
tion of which, perhaps, is magnificent pusillanimity. 
It is this that sometimes hurries the brave headlong in- 
to ruin, when adversity obscures his prospects, and his 
indignant spirit yields to the imperious dictates of de- 
spair. Under such a storm sunk Durgetti *, an illus- 
trious and accomplished Oriental princess, whose mag- 
nanimous spirit deserved a better fate. This Queen, 
who was famous for her beauty and her virtues, reign- 
ed over the small territory of Gurrah, about the 
middle of the sixteenth century. Her kingdom was 
populous and flourishing, and had never been subject- 
ed to the dominion of strangers. By Mohammed Ak- 
bar the Mogul emperor, whose renown was equal to 
his ambition, permission was given to Asaph, a warlike 
omrah, to subdue her country. A war ensued, which 
was terminated by a sanguinary action. In this, Dur- 
getti, like a bold heroine, clothed in armour, with a 
helmet upon her head, mounted in a castle upon an 
elephant, with her bow and quiver lying by her side, 
and a burnished lance in her hand, led on her own 
troops. Her little army, however, being unequally op- 
posed, was very soon broken by the enemy. The 
prince Biar, her gallant son, after having exhibited 
prodigies of valour, was slain in her presence. Her 
people fled, and she was left in the field with only three 
hundred men. She remained, however, unaffected by 
her desperate situation, and stood her ground with un- 

* See Dow's History of Hindcitan, Vol. IT. p. 244-5-6-7. 
vol, T. M 



90 ON COURAGE. NO. 

daunted fortitude, till she received an arrow in her eye. 
While endeavouring to extricate it, part of the steel 
broke short, and remained in the wound. In the mean 
time, another arrow passed through her neck, which 
she also drew out ; but, nature sinking under the pain, 
a dimness swam before her eyes, and she began to nod 
from side to side of the hovvdar *. Recovering from her 
faintness, she rejected, with a splendid disdain, the 
proposal of Adhar, a brave officer of her household, 
who had requested permission to carry her off the field. 
4i It is true," said she, " we are overcome in war, but 
■shall we ever be vanquished in honour ? Shall we for 
the sake of a lingering ignominious life, lose that re- 
putation and virtue which we have been so solicitous to 
acquire ? No : let your gratitude now repay that ser- 
vice for which I lifted up your head, and which I now 
require at your hands. Haste, I say ; let your dagger 
save me from the crime of putting a period to my own 
existence." — Adhar burst into tears, and begged to be 
permitted to carry her into a place of safety. While 
he hesitated, she suddenly leaned forward, seized his 
dagger, and, plunging it into her bosom, expired. — 
Six Indian chiefs, upon their elephants, still stood firm, 
and, ashamed of being outdone by a woman, dedica- 
ted their lives to the revenge of the queen. 

* A wooden tower mounted up on the back of an elephant. 



91 



No. XI. 

" Teach her, in Truth's unerring scales to weigh 
Each thought, each precept, ere she mould the lay ! 
Truth's vestal priestess, next her heart he worn 
The awful gem by Egypt's * pontiff borne : 
And though, with plumes from Fictions wing, she twint 
A votive wreath, to grace her Godhead's shine, 
Ne'er may her hand, in Fancy's heedless glow ! 
The wreath on Error's semblant altar throw ! 
Then, though she fail to purchase outward fame, 
Yet inward conscience shall applaud her aim." — 

Walker's Defence of Order, P. I. v. 201 — 210. 

TRUTH is an exhibition conformable to fact and 
consistent with the nature of things. It is opposed to 
falsehood, a representation morally not true, because 
it expresses that which is not thought — -and physically 
not true, because it conceives what does not exist. The 
attributes of Truth are veracity and reality : the one is 
moral, the other physical truth. Any deviation from 
it, viewed in either of these respects, is highly repre- 
hensible ; and, opposition to it is a state of guilt orig- 
inating in a want of integrity and consummated by 
crime. There are some minds that would revolt from 
the charge of falsehood, which, however, do not ob- 



* " The chief priest of the Egyptians," says JElian, " wore a figure 
round his neck, made of a sapphire stone, and the figure was called 
TRUTH." 

M 2 



02 



CAROLINE. 



serve error in equivocation nor delinquency in deceit. 
But, whether by evasion, hypocrisy, treachery, or 
perfidy we mislead or betray, we commit an outrage 
upon truth, and seldom fail to fall into a maze of ob- 
liquities which involves a multitude of embarrassments 
or overwhelms with distress. Candour, ingenuousness, 
sincerity, rectitude, and honour, are therefore, the best 
guides of conduct, and the purest incentives to action. 
They enable man to surmount the difficulties of life, 
and smooth his path to the mansions of peace. 

Eugene was returning from the Continent; where 
he had been, during seventeen years, engaged in 
the service of his country, and had boldly faced death 
and danger in all their various forms. He was now 
within view of his paternal inheritance, which had long 
been the property of his ancestors. When Eugene 
went abroad, his father was its possessor ; but he had, 
some years before, followed his predecessors to that 
home whither all must descend, and whence none ever 
return. The mansion was still inhabited by a beloved 
sister and her family, who were all very dear to him. 
Besides these, no other object had a particular place 
in his heart. 

Having arrived within a short mile of home, he 
took the pathway through a romantic valley, which 
had often been the scene of his youthful amusements, 
and, afterwards, the retirement wherein he had cher- 
ished a sincere but eventful passion. Recollection now 
saddened his heart, and his thoughts became melancho- 
ly. The valley was still the same, save where his eye 



XI. CAROLINE. 93 

discovered a little cottage reared on an eminence, and 
surrounded by a miniature pleasure-ground, laid out 
in a stile of elegant, but attractive, simplicity. He 
paused ; and, leaning down upon a mossy bank, gave 
way to a train of heart-rending recollections. Reader ! 
wouldest thou know the cause of his grief? Listen, 
then, to the story of the unhappy Caroline, and mark 
the fatal effects of one single deviation from candour 
by having recourse to deceit. 

Caroline was the beautiful daughter of a neigh- 
bouring gentleman, whose possessions were more ex- 
tensive than those of Eugene^ father. An unfortunate 
difference had long subsisted between the two old gen- 
tlemen, and was, by the father of Caroline, carried to 
such a height, that he forbade all communication with 
any of the other family. Eugene, who was destined 
for the army, was at this time attending the military 
schools, and far distant from this scene of discord. He 
had, now, for some time held a commission with to- 
lerable prospects of preferment, when his regiment was 
ordered on foreign service. Previously, however, to 
their departure, he obtained leave to spend a short pe- 
riod with his friends at home. His appearance and 
manners were well calculated to captivate and prepos- 
sess in his favour : his accomplishments, indeed, were 
many, and those not merely external. He had seen 
and admired Caroline when a child ; and now, by ac- 
cident, met with her in all the bloom of matured beau- 
ty. A mutual attachment was the consequence. — 

It has often been observed that opposition, in such 



94 CAROLINE. NO. 

cases, rather tends to forward than to frustrate the 
progress of the tender passion. The father of Caroline 
was violent and imperious, and learned with contemp- 
tuous indignation, that his so much admired daughter 
was secretly receiving the addresses of Eugene, the son 
of a man he avowedly hated. The ardour of his tem- 
per led him to treat her with great severity, in so much 
that he insisted upon her solemnly declaring that she 
would never marry Evigene, under pain of his utmost 
displeasure and execration. Caroline evaded a direct 
answer in the best manner possible, and only begged a 
few days to make up her mind to comply with his de- 
sires. Her resolution was already formed. This she 
immediately communicated to her lover, and gave her 
consent to have the marriage-ceremony privately per- 
formed. She would then give her father the required 
promise that she should never marry Eugene. 

Prudent deliberation is scarcely to be expected of 
young persons in love, and particularly in such a situation 
as that of Eugene. Indeed, this seemed to him to be the 
only expedient to prevent his forever losing the object 
of his heart's affection. The greatest caution and se- 
crecy was necessary in the execution of this design ; and 
they got it accomplished beyond their most sanguine 
expectations. The only persons in the secret were 
Caroline's maid and the gardener, her admirer and in- 
tended husband. Eugene brought from a considerable 
distance the license, and a person properly qualified 
who, in the presence of these two witnesses^ pronounced 
their indissoluble union. 



XJi CAROLINE. 95 

The spirit which supported Caroline during the 
prosecution of their purpose, now that it was complet- 
ed, began to sink. What, at the same time, added to 
her dejection, was her husband's receiving orders to 
join his regiment, now about to embark. Her father 
observed an alteration in her countenance, and was 
not quite sure how to interpret it. She, however, 
soon dissipated his doubts, by making a solemn declara- 
tion that she never should marry Eugene, whose de- 
parture from the country would soon put an end to his 
fears. 

The fond pair now solaced themselves with the re- 
flection that their union was complete ; and, although 
the embarkation was delayed for several months, they 
both deemed it prudent, under present circumstances, 
that Eugene should not return. A correspondence, 
however, was regularly conducted between them through 
the medium of their faithful confidents. 

Before the departure of her husband, Caroline 
found herself in a situation which would render con- 
cealment very difficult. She- had, in a feeling manner, 
informed him of this circumstance ; and, on the very 
day appointed for his sailing, she received from him a 
most kind and sympathising answer. In this, he con- 
jured her in the most earnest manner to be careful of 
herself for his sake ; and, in case she should find it ne- 
cessary, to leave her father's house. He inclosed am- 
ple means, at the same time, for her support, until 
such time as he should again be able to hear from her. 
With this letter in her bosom, she retired to an ar- 



96 CAROLINE. NO. 

bour in the garden ; and, on contemplating its contents, 
she became extremely affected, as it placed, in her im- 
mediate view, her husband's long absence and her own 
critical situation. Her mind was so deeply engaged, 
that her father approached unperceived ; and, her ap- 
pearance at the time exciting his suspicions, he snatch- 
ed the letter from her hand. He eagerly cast his eyes 
over it, and finding himself so completely deceived, rage 
choaked all utterance ; and, such was the fatal effect of 
his violent temper, that he sunk at her feet in a fit of 
apoplexy, and with a loud groan expired Words can- 
not express the feelings of the distracted Caroline. 
The sufferings of her father were soon over : her own 
lasted a few weeks, when she followed him to a prema- 
ture grave. She had, however, sufficient presence of 
mind to conceal the letter ; and the cause of his unex- 
pected death was thus forever hid from the world. 

The very first letters which Eugene received from 
Britain conveyed to him the melancholy intelligence of 
the death of his beloved Caroline, and also that of her 
father. He was given to understand, that the shock 
which she received from witnessing the sudden fate of 
her parent had occasioned her own. Seven months had 
only elapsed from the period when they had been united 
until they were thus forever separated by her untimely 
end. 

Eugene was for some time inconsolable, and inca- 
pable of attending to his duty. He afterwards, how- 
ever, entered upon it with redoubled energy, and 
seemed willing to court the grim king of terrors, by 



XI. CAROLINE. 97 

performing feats of daring valour. But death shunned 
his approach. He seemed alike regardless of fame and 
fortune, while both, as if by contrariety, followed his 
steps. But his strength of constitution proved unequal 
to his exertions, and his health was fast declining be- 
fore he could be induced to revisit his native country. — 
Such was the retrospective train of his melancholy re- 
flections as he approached the scenes of his departed 
joys. — He now arose from the verdant bank; and, with 
a saddened heart and a lingering pace, reached the habi- 
tation of his friends. 

He was received with heartfelt joy, by all the fa- 
mily, which he found considerably increased during 
his absence. Of his sister's two children which were 
born before he went out of the country, Alfred, thq 
eldest, was prosecuting his studies at the University, 
and Emmeline, then an infant, was become a beau- 
tiful girl of seventeen. Their joy, however, was not 
a little marred by Eugene's extreme dejection, and 
visible ill health. Emmeline, in particular, was most 
affected by it ; and, with tears streaming from her 
lovely eyes, hung about his neck and caressed him with 
all the affection of a daughter. Eugene would press 
her to his bosom, while he sighed over his blasted pro- 
spects. It was concerted between his sister and niece 
to have a little party and ball on the following even- 
ing ; and, if possible, to surprise him into better spir- 
its. Cards of invitation were accordingly issued to all 
their neighbouring acquaintance. Emmeline hesita- 
ted, however, before she could venture to solicit per- 

VOL. I. N 



98 CAROLINE. NO. 

mission to ask her own most dear and intimate friend. 
This was the daughter of the inhabitants of* the cottage 
which had attracted the notice of Eugene on entering 
the adjacent valley. She was nearly of the same age 
as Emmeline ; and her superior beauty was the admir- 
ation of all who beheld her. From infancy the hearts 
of the amiable pair had been united in more than or- 
dinary friendship. To this, the parents of Emmeline 
had never objected ; but of late, when Alfred was at 
home during vacations, they had become rather uneasy 
on account of his particular predilection for the cotta- 
gers 1 fair daughter. They also had often cautioned 
Emmeline against promoting it ; but, as he was now 
absent, her request was readily granted. With joy, 
therefore, she hastened to carry the invitation herself. 
Next morning Eugene happened to inquire of his 
brother-in-law, who it was that inhabited the romantic 
cottage overlooking the valley. He was informed that 
it was occupied by a decent industrious family, whom 
all their neighbours esteemed for their propriety of 
conduct ; and that they were noticed by many of a 
much higher rank in society than themselves. He then 
mentioned his fears concerning his son's attachment, 
but freely acknowledged, at the same time, the super- 
ior beauty and accomplishments of their daughter. 
He, likewise, observed that, if her own dispositions 
had not been uncommonly good, she must have been 
spoiled by the excessive indulgence and fondness of her 
parents, who seemed rather to adore than to love her. 



XI. CAROLINE. 99 

Eugene sighed over the recital, and again sunk into 
his former pensive silence. 

In the afternoon the party began to assemble, but 
he did not appear to enter into the spirit of it, and 
could rather have dispensed with this instance of his 
sister's kind and well-meant attention. Several very 
pretty young ladies, besides matrons and gentlemen 
had entered the room without seeming to arouse him. 
any farther than good-breeding required, and even the 
cottage beauty passed him entirely unobserved. It is 
true he was then engaged in conversation with the on- 
ly acquaintance he had yet recognised. Her entrance 
was not, however, unnoticed by the company. They 
had all often seen her before, but there was, at this 
time, something in her appearance which particularly 
attracted their observation. Her dress was plain and 
simple, and her fine glossy auburn hair flowed in pro- 
fusion over her snowy brow and neck. It was also 
tastefully twisted in a band with real pearls, and fixed 
at one side by a diamond clasp of great value. Up- 
on her bosom, suspended by a massy gold chain, hung 
the picture of a handsome young officer in full uni- 
form. Unaccustomed to public parties and naturally 
extremely modest, the scrutinizing eyes of so many 
observers filled her with confusion, which Emmeline 
seeing, she kindly seated herself beside her timid 
friend, and thus contributed very much to her relief. 
In the mean time, they were agreeably surprised by 
the entrance of Alfred, who had left the town some 
days sooner than they expected, and arrived thus 

n 2 



100 



CAROLINE. 



opportunely to meet his uncle. His eagle eye of 
love, at first glance, discovered his interesting favour- 
ite ; nor did the picture escape his eager view. Con- 
jecture, instantly, pointed it out as that of a more fa- 
voured rival ; and his confusion must have betrayed 
him, had it not passed for surprise at the unexpected 
meeting of his uncle. Scarcely, however, had he re- 
ceived the embrace of his affectionate relation, than, 
casting a wild and disordered look at the unintending 
object who occasioned it, he abruptly left the room and 
sent for his sister. Emmeline, afraid lest he had been 
taken ill, flew to the apartment into which he had re- 
tired. His agitation and incoherent inquiries concern- 
ing her friend not a little alarmed her, and she could 
give him no information respecting the picture, for 
she had never seen or heard of it before. As he seenir 
ed so deeply interested, however, she offered to return, 
and, if possible, obtain some intelligence, which she 
should immediately communicate to him. With this 
intention, she hastened back to the company. 

The artless cottager had observed Alfred's pertur- 
bation when he left the room, but ascribed it to a ve- 
ry different cause. Her idea was, that he had changed 
his mind with regard to her, and that he was dipleas- 
ed at seeing her there. This impression operated so 
forcefully upon her mind, scarcely yet recovered from 
the confusion which her entrance had excited, that she 
soon became quite sick ; and, just as Emmeline return- 
ed, she was sinking from her seat in a faint. Emmeline 
exclaimed, my dear Caroline !— -and flew to her sup- 



XI. CAROLINE. 101 

port. The sound thrilled through the heart of Eugene, 
and he started up to learn to whom it was applied. 
What was his emotion, when he fixed his eyes on the 
form of his beloved and lamented Caroline at the time 
she became his wife, and decorated with his own picture 
and other ornaments which he had on that occasion 
presented to her. His eyes became dim, and in a 
tremulous voice he exclaimed, Who — Who — , but the 
sound died upon his lips, and he sunk speechless by 
her side. The cries of Emmeline alarmed and brought 
in Alfred who, now regardless of all the beholders, 
caught Caroline in his arms, and uttered the wildest 
expressions of love, grief, and despair. A flood of tears 
at length came to her relief, and tended much to re- 
store her, when all present seemed anxious that she 
would clear up the mystery, and satisfy them with re- 
gard to the cause of so much distress. In this respect, 
however, she was as ignorant as themselves, and the 
developement was to be sought in some other source. 

Eugene had no sooner recovered from the state of 
insensibility into which surprise had thrown him, than 
he earnestly requested his brother-in-law to accompany 
him to the cottage. By the way, a thousand ideas crowd- 
ed upon his mind. He hoped, he feared, he knew not 
what or why. Upon entering, he instantly recognised 
in the cottagers, Susan the confidential maid of his la- 
mented Caroline, and the gardener her husband. An 
explanation immediately followed, by which he learn- 
ed that his dear wife had been so much shocked by the 
sudden death of her father, of which she accused her. 



102 CAROLINE. NO, 

self as the cause, that it brought on the premature 
birth of a daughter. Finding herself to be dying, and 
having little reason to expect that the child should sur- 
vive, she had, in a most impressive manner, enjoined 
Susan to secrecy ; and, in case it lived, to rear it as 
her own till such time as its father might return, 
when he would be able to shield it from the obloquy to 
which it must necessarily be subjected by the circum- 
stances of its birth. Susan had, thus, strictly obeyed 
the dying commands of her justly regretted lady. 

With mingled sensations of grief and joy, Eugene 
listened to the particulars of the death of one, whose 
life was dearer to him than his own. He was agreea- 
bly affected by the confirmation of the lovely young 
Caroline being a pledge of his early love, and thus mir- 
aculously spared to him. He now cordially thanked 
the faithful pair for their generosity, and eagerly hast- 
ed back to the mansion, there to feast his longing eyes 
with a view of his sweet and amiable daughter. It 
was not long till he clasped her in an embrace of patern- 
al love ; and, while pressing her to his bosom, he felt 
a glow of renovating life thrill through his heart, which 
soon became visible on his countenance and his frame. 
Henceforward, he daily recovered his health and spir- 
its ; and, with heartfelt satisfaction, promoted a union 
which joined the hand of his now rich as well as lovely 
Caroline with that of his excellent nephew Alfred, 
whose disinterested affection he had witnessed when 
she was only the supposed daughter of the humble 
cottagers. M. 



XII. ON THE RITES OP BUDDHA. 103 

No. XII. 

" First an all-potent all-pervading sound 
Bade flow the waters — and the waters florid 
Exulting in their measureless abode, 
Diffusive, multitudinous, profound, 
Above, beneath, around ; 
Then o'er the vast expanse primordial wind 
Breath' d gently, till a lucid bubble rose, 
Which grew in gentle shape an egg refin'd : 
Created substance no such lustre shows, 
Earth no such beauty knows. 
Above the warring waves it danc'd elate, 
Till from its bursting shell with lovely state 
A form cerulean flutter d o'er the deep, 
Brightest of beings, greatest of the great : 
Who, not as mortals steep, 
Their eyes in dewy sleep, 
But, heav'nly-pensive, on the Lotos lay, 
That blossom'd at his touch and shed a golden ray." 
Sir W. Jones' Hymn to Narayena, v. 37 — 54. 

SUPERSTITION degrades the human mind, and 
prepares it for the observance of useless and immoral 
rites, and the accomplishment of frivolous and baneful 
practices. As it discovers an evident influence upon 
individual character and conduct, so it never fails to 
modify economy and government when its ascendancy 
becomes impressed upon the manners of society and 



104 



ON THE RITES 



the customs of nations. It is, doubtless, the genial pa- 
rent of folly fostered by credulity, and the teeming 
source of error and vice, cherished by ignorance and 
prolific of crimes and cruelty. 

Few of mankind are altogether exempted from the 
operation of this malevolent affection. It lisps in the 
language of the eloquent ; and, while it sullies the fame 
of the great, it impairs the merit of the good and de- 
bases the excellence of the wise. In the warbles of the 
lyre, it glows and attracts ; and, in the tale of passion 
and delight, it captivates and deceives. Being heady 
and bold in the dogmas of the philosopher, the theologue, 
and the moralist, it is imperious and confounds ; and, 
when partial and ardent in the narratives of action and 
renown, it blinds, misleads, and betrays. Hence have 
arisen innumerable reveries respecting the descent of 
sages and heroes, the origin of religions, and the peop- 
ling of climes. Few, however, are willing to deduce 
the objects of their applause and veneration from, an 
obscure or ignoble stem. Systems, therefore, .although 
fraught with foolery and degraded by falsehood, are 
ascribed to sources, reverend from their sublimity and 
awful from their power. Under the same impulsive 
influence, the spark of patriotism, too, has been kind- 
led to illumine the path of vanity amid the mazes of 
fancy, obliquity, and pride. 

While many thus, inconsciously, betray the la- 
tent existence of this ungenerous principle in the mind, 
others demonstrate their resignation under its predom- 
inancy by the absurdity of their creeds and the flagitious 



XII. OP BUDDHA. 105 

result of their forms. In illustration of this general 
position, it might not be uninteresting to direct the at- 
tention to a survey of such notices as have been collected 
concerning the pagan ritual and idolatry of the prime- 
val nations. The subsequent observations, in prosecu- 
tion of this design, will be directed to a detail of what 
sketches remain on record to illustrate the rites anddoc- 
trines of the votaries of Buddha, an Oriental divinity, 
whose worship prevails over the kingdoms of Ava and 
Siam, and other parts of the vast continent of Hindos- 
tan, together with the Island of Ceylon, which is believ- 
ed to have been the seat of his appearance and the cradle 
of his faith. The detail, if it represent the exhibition 
of the simple ceremonies of an artless race, will, at 
least, delineate human weakness in a shape neither re- 
pulsive nor unamiable. Instead of contemplating the 
stern observances, which sanctify cruelty by the mask 
of expiatory immolation, or of regarding that splendid 
mummery which astonishes ignorance and bewilders the 
weak, the mind will be led to compare the traditions 
and precepts of Buddha with the histories and doctrines 
of the True Religion, the source of which is universal 
benevolence and love. 

Buddha, according to the oriental legends, is said 
to have visited the Island of Ceylon * at three different 

* Ceylon is an island in the Indian Ocean, between 5° 49' and 9 J 
."0' N. latitude, and between 79° 30' and 81° 5C E. longitude, being 
situated at the-entrance of the Bay of Bengal. Its name would indicate 
that it had early been considered as a seat of religious ceremonies. By 
the Greeks and Romans, it was called Taprobane: in the Sanscrit tongue 
it is denominated Tapobon, the wilderness of prayer, the place of the 
VOL. I. O 



106 ON - THE RITES NO. 

periods. At his first appearance, it was inhabited by 
demons, whom he expelled ; at his second, he left the 
impression of his foot on Adam's Peak, a romantic 
mountain in the south-eastern part of the isle, where it 
still remains ; at the third, he consecrated sixteen dif- 
ferent places for the purposes of divine worship. One 
of these is now overflowed by the sea, and snakes pro- 
duced there are considered as objects of adoration ; an- 
other is an inaccesible cavern in the vicinity of the Peak; 
and all the rest are occupied by pagodas and consecrat- 
ed fanes. 

The circumstances of the birth of Buddha are re- 
lated in the Poojawallia, or Book of Adorations, writ- 
ten in the language of the Cingalese, a numerous peo- 
ple in Ceylon. In this, he is represented as having 
descended from the celestial regions, to have been mir- 
aculously conceived and born, and to have appeared 
upon earth as an instructor of religion and virtue, and 
a mediator between mankind and the divinity. They 
relate that he existed as a god in heaven ; and that, at 
the request of the ethereal spirits, he consented to visit 
this earth in the form of a man. " Before he quitted 
the Empyreum," says the mythological legend, " four 
uncommon symptoms, about his person, warned him 



hallowed groves, whither pious pilgrims repaired from the remotest 
parts of Hindostan, to offer gifts and adorations to the mysterious God. 
By the natives, it is named Lanca, the Holy Isle. The appellations, 
Serendib of the Arabians, Sielendiba of Cosmas Indopleustes, Zeilan 
and Ceylon of modern times seem to refer to the character of the 
people, and represent the place as being the Isle of a leonine race. 



XII. OF BUDDHA. 107 

of his approaching change. The garment he wore, 
and which had hitherto been spotless, appeared to be 
sullied: his garland of perpetually blooming flowers be- 
gan to fade : the brightness of his visage became dim : 
a profuse perspiration issued from all his pores ; and 
he vanished from the heavens as a taper is extinguish- 
ed by the wind. 

" A queen, in whose womb the miraculous concep- 
tion took place, dreamed an extraordinary dream, which 
she related to her king. He, anxious to obtain an in- 
terpretation, convened a large assembly of sages, who 
unanimously declared, that one of the celestial order 
had left the empyreal regions, and that the child, to 
be born of the queen, should appear a new deity among 
men. 

" On that day when he was conceived, the earth 
was astonished with a blaze of wonders. Ten thousand 
worlds trembled, and the brightness of light shone round 
about them. Ten thousand blind received sight. Ten 
thousand dumb spake. Ten thousand deaf heard. The 
flames of hell, which blazed through thirteen hundred 
and sixty thousand worlds, were completely extinguish- 
ed. The persons who suffered torment in these flames 
were relieved from pain, and felt as if they had been 
plunged into a refreshing stream. The hungry were 
fed. The beasts and birds, that formerly devoured 
each other, played together as friends. The sick were 
cured of their diseases. The hatred of men was turn- 
ed into love and friendship. The horses neighed. The 
elephants and lions uttered sounds of joy. The robe^ 



10S 



ON" THE RITES 






of the gods and their servants fell from their shoulders. 
Six splendid colours beamed toward different points. 
The wind wafted odours. Rain fell in ten thousand 
worlds. All places of the earth were washed. The 
fowls of the air descended, and walked upon the ground 
without fear. The rivers overflowed their banks. The 
forty thousand seas of the ten thousand worlds became 
smooth as a lake and wholesome to drink as a running 
brook, and flowers began to spring and to bloom on their 
borders. The trees of every kind put forth their blos- 
soms, which filled the atmosphere with their fragrance, 
and fell, afterwards, like a shower of rain upon the 
earth. 

" After nine months and fifteen days, the queen 
was seized with the pains of labour while Avalking in a 
garden. Having reclined under a tree, called bogaha *, 
covered with blossoms, she stretched out her hand to 
lay hold of one of the branches, and the branch stoop- 
ed down to meet her. And the prince was born with- 



* The Bogaha, Ficus Religiosa, or Tree of Buddha, is held in great 
veneration both in Ceylon and on the Continent of India. It acquires 
the utmost elegance and gracefulness of form, grows to an immense size, 
has a smooth bark, and is, perhaps, the most completely beautiful of all 
the trees which adorn the wide garden of Nature. The leaves are parti- 
cularly handsome, being exactly of the form of a heart, and having along 
pointed extremity, and a long foot-stalk. When full-grown, they 
measure upwards of six inches in breadth and eight in length, includ- 
ing the tapering point, which is two inches. The first grows without 
stalks adhering to the branches. The bogaha is accounted the most 
sacred of trees in India; and is held in such high estimation in the coun- 
try of Candy, that the form of its leaves is only allowed to be painted 
upon furniture employed exclusively for the gratification of the king, 
It is ranked in the Polygamia Class of Plants, 



XII. OF BUDDHA. 109 

out spot or blemish." , — Such is the account of some of 
the portentous accompaniments of the birth of Buddha, 
and which can scarcely be read without suggesting the 
existence of a resemblance between them and some pro- 
phecies of the Christian Scriptures. To trace the ori- 
gin of the tradition to its probable source might be a 
theme of equal interest and instruction ; but this is not 
the place for an inquiry so vast and so complicated. — 
The precepts of Buddha direct a belief in the exis- 
tence of One Supreme Being, and in a future state of 
rewards and punishments. His religious rites are per- 
formed in hallowed retirements and with little splen- 
dour, the essential part of the ceremonies being the 
offering of gifts. The Buddhists are prohibited from 
killing any animal whatever, from the meanest insect 
up to man ; and from drinking any liqour, or eating 
any drug, of an intoxicating quality. They hold the 
river Mahavillaganga in the same veneration as the 
Ganges is by the Hindoos of Bengal. Its water is con- 
sidered to be effectual in washing away sin : but dead 
bodies are never thrown into it. 

The temples of Buddha are chiefly buildings of a 
-small size, having tiled roofs and plain stone walls, the 
inside of which together with the ceilings, are covered 
with historical paintings in miniature, and other orna- 
ments in gaudy colours. In every complete temple 
there is one colossal statue of Buddha, in a sleeping 
posture, before which are hung curtains of printed cot- 
ton, and only drawn aside when occasion requires. 
TheBuddhists neverform images of the supreme creator. 



110 , ON THE RITES OF BUDDHA. NO. 

A large cupola, raised upon a broad base, stands a near 
companion to every temple and is said to contain some 
sacred relic. The priests wear a long yellow garment 
thrown over one shoulder, girded round the waist, and 
reaching down to the ankles. The hair of their heads 
is entirely shaved off, and they walk about without 
any covering except a round flat umbrella in their hands, 
or shaded by a talipot leaf carried by attending servants. 
Before they are received into the priesthood they are 
obliged to make a solemn renunciation of the world, 
and to profess a life of celibacy. Their wants are sup- 
plied by the people, and the most beautiful females of 
the country attend them in their houses without wages. 
They enjoy their lands free of taxes, and are honoured 
to such a degree that wherever they go the people bow 
down before them, but they bow to none. When they 
wish to marry they may renounce their order, the cere- 
mony attending which is, the pulling off their coat, 
throwing it into a river, and afterward immersing 
themselves in the stream. — Such are the doctrines of 
Buddha *, the Ceylonese Messiah ; and such the tradi- 
tions, the rites, and the faith of his votaries, as far as 
they have been discovered by the investigations of Eu- 
ropean research. Y. 



* See An Historical Relation of the Island of Ceylon in the East 
Indies, by Robert Knox, a captive there for nearly twenty years; Lon- 
don, 16S1 : and a Description of Ceylon, by the Rev. James Cordin- 
er late chaplain to the garrison of Columbo, 2 vols. 4to. London, 1807- 



Ill 



No. XIII. 

" Say, who is she, in whom the noble graces, 
The engaging manner, dignity, and ease 
Are join' d with manly sense and resolution ?" 

Thomson's Alfred, Act II. Scene III. v. 177-9. 

BIOGRAPHY, while it records the details of indi- 
vidual action, not unfrequently exhibits a picture of 
popular manners and a delineation of national charac- 
ter. It, thus, becomes an agreeable source of amuse- 
ment and a vehicle of useful instruction. When its 
displays require the imitation of whatever is delightful, 
or beneficent, or excellent, they attract the observant 
attention of the virtuous ; and, if they depict what is 
ignoble, or destructive, or vicious, by genuine imagery, 
they place a beacon before the eyes of those whom similar 
propensities may have misled or betrayed. The sub- 
sequent sketch, with a view to please and inform, will 
relate the facts and events which marked the fortunes 
of a magnanimous female and an illustrious queen — 
Septimia Zenobia, the celebrated princess of Palmyra, 
and wife of Odenatus, Emperor of the East. 

As the narrative, however, will direct the atten- 
tion to three different topics, and each of these not un- 
interesting, it may be convenient to allow them a se- 
parate consideration. This, then, will include the 
topography of Palmyra, an account of Odenatus, and 
the story of Zenobia. 



112 PALMYRA. ' NO. 

Palmyra * was the capital of Palmyrene, a coun- 
try on the eastern boundaries of Syria. By the Arabs 
who, in modern times, sojourn around it, the ruined 
city is denominated Theudemor, a name which has in- 
duced the ingenious to regard it as the same with that 
which Solomon -f- beautified, and distinguished by the 
characteristic appellation of Tadmor in the Wilderness. 
Whoever might have been the founder of the place, 
both the terms by which it is now known, seem to 
point out its having abounded with palm trees, to af- 
ford shade to the dwellers of that sunny land. It was 
situated in a populous region, at the convergence of 
two hills, and beyond the point where they approach. 
The adjacent heights supplied it with water, and the 
ruins of its aqueducts still remain. It seems to have 
been a place of some importance antecedently to the 
days of Solomon, who must have converted it into the 
emporium of an extensive commerce carried on by his 
subjects with India and the Persian Gulf. It was oc- 
cupied by Nabuchadonosor the Babylonian, before he 
laid seige to Jerusalem, and during the subsequent 

* Pliny, Lib. V. c. 21. and VI. c. 26, SO, where it is represent- 
ed as being situated in a rich soil, among pleasant streams, and total- 
ly separated from the rest of the world by avast sandy desart. The 
celebrated traveler, Bruce, from such observations as he was enabled 
to make, concluded the latitude of Palmyra to be 33° 58' N. and its 
longitude 37° 9' E. from Greenwich. He took a draught of the ruins, 
divided into six angular views, upon large paper, which, on his re- 
turn he presented to the king, in whose magnificent Collection they 
now are. 

f Wood's Ruins of Palmyra, folio, London, 1753, and Vclney's 
Travels in Syria and Egypt, Vol. II. Chap, XXX. 



XIII. PALMYRA. 113 

greatness of the Parthians and Romans, it suddenly 
rose into a powerful and splendid city. 

The authentic history of Palmyra does not com- 
mence till after the captivity, in A.D. 260, of Valerian 
the Roman emperor by the Persians. It is first men- 
tioned, indeed, as a place which Mark Antony at- 
tempted to plunder, upon pretence that it had not ob- 
served a just neutrality between his own nation and the 
Parthians. Under Odenatus, whose services against 
the Persians procured him to be recognised, by Galli- 
enus the Roman emperor, as his colleague in the East, 
the Palmyrenians acquired their independency ; and 
their city, being frequented by the caravans of the ori- 
ental merchants, became a considerable seat of traffic 
daily increasing in splendour and wealth. By the fall 
of Zenobia it was overwhelmed in ruin, and from be- 
ing a grand commercial emporium, and a retreat of 
learning and the arts, it gradually sunk into a miser- 
able groupe of mud-walled hovels erected amid the 
most magnificent ruins in the world. 

Since the age of Mahomet, the fortunes of Palmy- 
ra have attracted little notice. At that period it was 
considered a place of some importance and strength. 
In the twelfth century, its population is said to have 
included two thousand Jews ; but, in 1751, when it 
was visited by Mr Wood, its humble occupants con- 
sisted of about thirty families of Arabs, whose huts 
were constructed in the court of a once spacious tem- 
ple. These people are well-shaped, and their women, 
though very swarthy, have good features. They paint 



114 PALMYRA. NO. 

the ends of their fingers red, their lips blue, and their 
eyebrows and eyelashes black. Their ornaments are 
large rings of gold or brass in their ears and nostrils ; 
and, although wearing veils, they do not so scrupu- 
lously conceal their faces as most of the other oriental 
females. They appear to be a healthy, robust, and hap- 
py race. 

The ruins of the City of Palms consist chiefly of 
temples, palaces, porticoes, and funeral monuments. 
These had been executed in Grecian architecture, and 
lie scattered over a surface of many miles. The most 
remarkable of the whole, and occupying a square of 
two hundred and twenty yards, are the remains of a 
stately temple of the Sun. It had been surrounded by 
a lofty wall, built of square stones and adorned with 
pilasters, both in the interior and exterior ; and these 
amount to sixty-two on each side. Within the court, 
are the ruins of two rows of very noble marble pil- 
lars, thirty-seven feet high, with capitals of the most 
exquisite workmanship. These seem to have been num- 
erous, going round the whole court, and supporting a 
double piazza ; of them, however, only fifty-eight re- 
main. The walks on that side of the portico, which 
fronts the castle, must have been very spacious and 
beautiful. At each end of this line are two niches for 
statues with their pedestals, borders, supporters, and 
canopies, carved with extreme propriety and elegance. 
The space within this inclcsure, now occupied by the 
miserable huts of the inhabitants, was an open court, 
in the middle of which stood the Solar Temple, en- 



xnr. PALMYRA. 115 

compassed by another row of pillars, of a different or- 
der, and fifty feet in height. These are all demolish- 
ed to the number of sixteen. The whole space con- 
tained within the pillars is fifty-nine, by twenty-nine 
yards, of which one half constituted the site of the 
temple. This points north and south, having, in the 
middle of the western side, a most magnificent en- 
trance, on the ruins of which are carved some vines and 
clusters of grapes, in an inconceivably bold and master- 
ly imitation of nature. Immediately above the door, 
are a pair of wings, either of an eagle or a cherub, ex- 
tending over the whole breadth; but the body to which 
they belonged is totally effaced. The north end of the 
building is adorned with the most curious fret-work and 
bas-relief; and, in the middle, there is a dome or cu- 
pola about ten feet in diameter. The windows, which 
are not large, are narrower at the top than below. 
North of this place, is an obelisk, fifty feet high and 
twelve in circumference, consisting of seven large stones, 
besides its capital and the wreathed work about it. At 
the distance of nearly a quarter of a mile, to the east 
and west of this, are two others with the fragment of 
a third, forming, perhaps, a part of what had origin- 
ally been a continued row. About one hundred paces, 
in front of the middle obelisk, is a splendid entry to a 
piazza, forty feet broad, half a mile in length, and 
inclosed with two rows of marble pillars, each twenty- 
six feet high, and four in diameter. The upper end is 
shut in by similar pillars, standing less distant. A Ut- 
ile to the left are the ruins of a stately building, which 



116 PALMYRA. NO. 

had been erected of excellent marble, and finished in a 
style of superior elegance. The pillars which support- 
ed it, are of one entire stone, measuring twenty-two 
feet in length, and nearly nine in circumference. In 
the west side of the piazza are several openings for 
gates into the court of the palace, each of which 
was adorned with four porphyry pillars, standing two 
on each side in the front of the gate facing the palace. 
These were thirty feet long, and four and a half in di- 
ameter; but, excepting one, are all overturned. On 
the east side, stand a great number of marble pillars, 
the most of which are mutilated. At a little distance 
are the remains of a little temple, unroofed, and hav- 
ing the walls defaced. Before the entry, which looks 
to the south, is a piazza supported by six pillars, two 
on each side of the door and one at either end. The 
pedestals of those in front have been filled with inscrip- 
tions * in the Greek and Palmyrenian languages ; but 
they are now rendered totally illegible. 

Among the ruins of this once splendid city are many 
sepulchres, ranged on each side of a hollow way, to- 
ward the north part of the city, and extend more than 



* See Universal Ancient History, Vol. II. p. 176, 258, 273-8 ; Phil- 
osophieal Transactions, Nos. CCXVII andCCXVIII.; An Explication 
of the Inscriptions at Palmyra hitherto published, by John Swinton, 
of Christ- Church, Oxford; Barthelemy's Reflections on the Palmyrene 
Alphabet, Paris, 1754; and The Ruins of Palmyra, or Tadmor in 
the Desert, by Wood, Bouverie, and Dawkins, who traveled there in 
1751, and published the result of their observations, in 1753, in the 
form of an atlas of 57 copperplates, 16, by 12 inches, printed on 
imperial paper. They are admirably executed; the drawing is correct 
and masterly, and the engraving elegant and exquisitely finished. 



xnr. ODENATUS. lit 

a mile. They are all square towers, four or five stor- 
eys high ; but, though alike in form, differ greatly in 
magnitude and splendour. The outside is of common 
stone, the floors and partitions of marble. There is a 
walk across the whole building, just in the middle; 
and the space on each side is formed into six divisions 
by thick walls, forming niches capable of receiving the 
the largest bodies, of which six or seven are piled up- 
on one another. Such was the state of the ruins of the 
City of Zenobia, according to the survey of the latest 
travelers in that interesting region. During the lapse 
of years, however, they must be subjected to diminu- 
tion from the wasteful influence of age and decay, and 
to destruction from the malignant ignorance of the 
rude hordes that roam around them. — An account of 
Odenatus, the enterprising prince under whom Pal- 
myra assumed a temporary independency will now in- 
vite the attention, and may be so far entertaining as it 
unfolds the progressive success of a vigorous mind. 

The origin and birth of Odenatus has not been de- 
tailed by the pen of history. It is only known, that 
from an obscure and private station he became the hus- 
band of Zenobia, and Emperor of the East. Being 
naturally of a daring and ardent spirit, he early in- 
ured himself to bear fatigue and to encounter danger. 
While prosecuting the pursuits of pleasure and amuse- 
ment, in the hunting of wild beasts, he accustomed 
himself to the labours of a military life. He was a 
faithful friend and intrepid ally of the Romans, in sup- 
port of whose interests he employed the resources of 



118 ODENATUS. N(U 

his kingdom with energy and success. When Valerian 
had been taken prisoner by Sapor king of Persia, O- 
denatus warmly interested himself in his cause, and 
solicited his release, by writing and sending presents 
to the conqueror. The haughty monarch was incensed 
at this liberty, tore the letter, and commanded the ac- 
companying presents to be thrown into a river. In 
order, at the same time, to punish Odenatus, who had 
the impudence, as he called it, to pay homage to so 
great a monarch as himself, he directed that prince to 
appear before him, on pain of being devoted to instant 
destruction with all his family, if he dared to refuse. 
Odenatus contemned this insolent summons, and pre- 
pared to oppose force to force. 

In the contest which succeeded, the fortune of the 
Palmyrenian monarch was equal to his expectation and 
the justice of his cause. He soon obtained some consid- 
erable advantages over the troops of his enemy, whose 
queen he took prisoner, together with a great and valua- 
ble booty. His splendid victories over the Great King, 
whom he twice chased to the gates of Ctesiphon, the 
Persian capital, laid the foundation of his future fame 
and power. In all these expeditions he was emulated by 
the heroical Zenobia, and the armies which they com- 
manded, and the provinces they saved, acknowledged 
no other sovereign than these invincible chiefs. The sen- 
ate and people of Rome observed their services with 
gratitude, and revered a stranger who had avenged their 
captive emperor, whose insensible son, Gallienus, ac- 
cepted Odenatus for his legitimate colleague in the em- 



XIII. ODENATUS. 119 

pire, giving the title of Augustus to his children, and that 
of Augusta to his magnanimous consort and queen. 

Odenatus, invested with new honours and greater 
power, resolved to signalize himself more conspicuous- 
ly by conquering the barbarians of the north. Having 
made a successful expedition against the Gothic plun- 
derers of Asia, he returned in triumph to the city of 
Emesa in Syria. Victorious in war, he was there cut 
off by domestic treason ; and his favourite amusement 
of hunting was the cause, or at least the occasion of 
his death. His nephew, Mseonius, presumed to dart 
his javelin before that of his uncle ; and, though ad- 
monished of his error, repeated the same insolence. 
As a monarch and as a sportsman, Odenatus was pro- 
voked ; took away his horse, a mark of ignominy a- 
mong the oriental nations, and chastised the rash youth 
by a short confinement. The offence was soon forgot- 
ten ; but the punishment was remembered. Mse- 
onius, with a few daring associates, assassinated his 
uncle, in A. D. 267, in the midst of a great entertain- 
ment. But the murderer obtained only the pleasure 
of revenge by this bloody deed. He had scarcely time 
to assume the Imperial title, before he was sacrificed 
by Zenobia * to the memory of her husband. 



* Trebellius Pollio, in Historic Augustas Scriptores Sex, folio, 
Paris, 1620. The beginning of Pollio's history is lost : part of the 
reign of Valerian, and the Lives of the two Gallieni, with those of 
the Thirty Tyrants, are the only fragments remaining. The author 
flourished in the beginning of the fourth century. See also Lempriere's 
Classical Dictionary, in vo ; and Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the 
Roman Empire, Vol. II. Chap. XI. p. 28, 29. 



120 ZENOBIA. NO. 

Europe has produced many illustrious women, who 
have sustained with glory the weight of empire. Nor 
has our own country, so abundant in heroes and feats 
of splendid heroism, been destitute of such distinguish- 
ed and illustrious characters. But Zenobia is, perhaps, 
the only female whose superior genius broke through 
the servile indolence imposed upon her sex by the clim- 
ate and manners of the East. She claimed her descent 
from the Macedonian kings of Egypt, and boasted the 
blood of Cleopatra, whom she equaled in beauty, and 
far surpassed in virtue and valour. 

Zenobia was esteemed the most lovely as well as 
the most heroic of her sex. She was of a dark com- 
plexion, having teeth of a pearly whiteness, and fine 
large black eyes, sparkling with uncommon fire, but 
tempered by the most attractive sweetness. Her voice 
was strong and harmonious, and her manly understand- 
ing was strengthened by study. Under the tuition of 
the sublime Longinus *, she became skilled in the Latin 
tongue, and understood, in perfection, the Greek, the 



* Dionysius Cassius Longinus was a celebrated Athenian philo- 
sopher and critic. He became preceptor and minister to Zenobia, 
but his zeal and spirited activity in her cause proved, at last, fatal to 
him. When Aurelian subdued Palmyra, in A. D. 273, he was sacri- 
ficed to the fury of the Roman soldiers. He exemplified the truth of 
his doctrines by the magnanimity and resolution which he displayed 
at his death. Longinus has rendered his name immortal by his criti- 
cal remarks on ancient authors ; and his Treatise on the Sublime gives 
the world reason to lament the loss of his other valuable compositions. 
— The best editions of his works are, that of Tollius, 4to. Trajecti 
ad Rhenum, 1694; and that of Toup, 8vo. Oxon. 1778. Vide Lem- 
priere in vo. 



SJ1I. ZENbBIA. 121 

Syriac, and the Egyptian languages. She familiarly 
compared the beauties of Homer and Plato ; and had 
drawn up, for her own use, an epitome of oriental his- 
tory. Zenobia was, indeed, a princess of extraordi- 
nary virtue and energy, being, at the same time, beau- 
tiful, chaste, learned, valiant, enterprising, and wise. 

This most accomplished woman, having given her 
hand to Odenatus, soon became the friend and the 
companion of a hero. He was passionately fond of 
hunting, and the manly sports of the field. He pur- 
sued with ardour the wild beasts of the desart — bears, 
panthers, and lions ; and the eagerness of the queen 
was equal to his own. By such vigorous exercises, she 
inured her constitution to fatigue, and her mind to dan- 
ger. Disdaining the use of a covered carriage, she 
generally appeared on horseback in a military habit, 
and sometimes marched several miles on foot at the 
head of her troops. Her judgment and activity were 
not inferior to her resolution ; and the success of O- 
denatus must, in a great measure, be ascribed to her in- 
comparable prudence and fortitude. 

By the death of Odenatus, whose assassins Zeno- 
bia instantly sacrificed to indignant justice, that author- 
ity, which the Roman senate had granted him only as 
a personal distinction, was at an end. With the as- 
sistance of his most faithful friends, she, however, 
immediately filled the vacant throne ; and, during more 
than five years, governed, with wisdom and vigour. 
Palmyra, Syria, and the East. When Rome and her 
effeminate emperor, Gallienus, disapproved of her as--. 



122 ZENOBIA. NO, 

sumption of the sovereign power, she opposed the 
Roman troops, and compelled Heraclianus, one of their 
generals, who had been sent against her, to retreat with 
the loss of his army and reputation. Pursuing her 
success, the intrepid heroine over-ran Egypt, and af- 
ter a long and obstinate siege, took Bruchium, the 
citadel of Alexandria, and entirely destroyed it. Pro- 
bus, the commander of the Roman troops, in that 
province, to avoid falling into the hands of the victor- 
ious queen, dispatched himself with his own sword. 

The wisdom of Zenobia^s political administration 
was equal to her vigour in the field. Unbiased by the 
little passions that perplex a female reign, her steady 
government was guided by most judicious maxims of 
policy. If it were expedient to pardon, she could calm 
her resentment : if it were necessary to punish, she 
could impose silence on the voice of pity. Her strict 
economy might be accused of avarice ; yet on every 
proper occasion she appeared magnificent and liberal. 
The neighbouring states of Arabia, Armenia, and Per- 
sia, dreaded her enmity, and solicited her alliance. 
Her dominions extended from the banks of the Eu- 
phrates to the western frontiers of Egypt, then, a fer- 
tile, populous, and flourishing kingdom. The emper- 
or Claudius, who had succeeded Gallienus, acknow- 
ledged her merit, and was content that while he pursued 
the Gothic war, she should assert the dignity of the 
Empire in the East. If ever Zenobia erred in policy, 
ambition now betrayed her to assume a false dignity, and 
to enter into a labyrinth of rashness, difficulty, and 



XIII. 2EN0BIA. 123 

danger. Presuming on the existing embarrassments of 
Rome, she appears to have conceived the design of e- 
rec'ting not only an independent monarchy, but one 
hostile to the former allies of her state. She began, 
at this period, to assume the grandeur of a queen, im- 
itating the pomp and magnificence of the Persian raon- 
archs, and causing all who presented themselves before 
her, to fall prostrate after the manner of the Oriental 
courts. With this stately pomp she blended the popu- 
lar manners of the Roman emperors, giving magnificent 
entertainments, and joining in scenes of festivity with 
the officers of her army. On her three sons * she be- 
stowed a classical education, and often showed them 
to the troops adorned with the regalia of empire and 
robed in the imperial purple. For herself she re- 
served the diadem, with the power of a sovereign, and 
the splendid title of Queen of the East. 

The glorious career of Zenobia was now hastening 
towards its termination. By the death of the great 
and excellent Flavius Claudius, the supreme power 
devolved upon Aurelian, a prince of stern manners and 
consummate valour. He was the son of a Sirmiau 
peasant ; and, from the place of a common soldier, rose, 
by regular gradations, to be head of the vast Roman 
empire. In every station he distinguished himself by 

* Their names were Timolaus, Herennianus, and Vaballathus, 
of whom the two former are supposed to have died before the over- 
throw of their country. Upon the last, Aurelian bestowed a small pro- 
vince of Armenia, with the title of king. Several of his medals are 
still extant. Vide Le Nain de TiHemont Hist, des Emp. -3to. Paris. 
3 TOO, Tom. Hi. p. 3 • 90. 

Q 2 



124 ZENOBIA. NO. 

matchless intrepidity, rigid discipline, and successful 
conduct. By the emperor Valerian, who invested him 
with the consulship, he was styled, in the pompous 
language of that age, the Deliverer of Illyricum, the 
Restorer of Gaul, and the Rival of the Scipios. He 
was adopted by Ulpius Crinitus *, a senator of high 
rank and merit, who gave him his daughter in mar- 
riage ; and, with his ample fortune, relieved the honour- 
able poverty which Aurelian had preserved inviolate. 

Being admitted to that dignity, by the senate and 
army, to which his predecessor had recommended him, 
Aurelian entered upon his administration with energy, 
prudence, and a rigid attention to justice. By his se- 
vere discipline he rendered his troops obedient, frugal, 
and laborious ; and, having suppressed the feeble efforts 
of a rival, repelled the predatory Goths, vanquished the 
Alemanni, and subdued two usurpers, he prepared, in 
A. D. 272, to annihilate the pretensions and power of 
the Queen of the East. Passing over into Asia at the 
head of his legions, he reduced to obedience or received 
the submission of Ancyra, Tyana, Antioch, and other 
places, and reconciled the minds of the Syrians to the 
Roman government, either by an unexpected mildness 
of conduct, or by the terror of his arms. 

Zenoeia would have ill-deserved her reputation, 
had she indolently permitted the army of her enemy to 



* The ceremony of his adoption, which was performed at Byzan- 
tium in the presence of the emperor and the chief officers of the state.. 
is described in Aureliani Vita ap. Hist. August, p. 213. 



XIH, ZENOBIA. 125 

advance within a hundred miles of her capital. From 
Tyana, Aurelian led his troops straight to Antioch, in 
the neighbourhood of which he defeated the Palmyren- 
ian forces, in an engagement the success of which he 
owed more to a stratagem than to the superior bravery 
of his men. Zenobia retired to Emesa with her army, 
consisting of seventy thousand men. By her presence 
she animated the soldiers, and on Zabdas, an officer 
of great courage and experience, who had already sig- 
nalized himself by the conquest of Egypt, she devolv- 
ed the execution of her orders. Aurelian led on, to a se- 
cond attack, the hardy veterans whose valour had been 
severely tried in the Alemannic war, and, in a well- 
fought action, was again victorious. This defeat obliged 
the heroine to retreat to Palmyra, the last resource of 
her waning power. She retired within the walls of 
her capital, made every preparation for a vigorous re- 
sistance, and intrepidly declared, that the last moment 
of her reign and her life should be the same. 

Aurelian immediately invested the City of Palms ; 
and, by repeated assaults, endeavoured to carry it. 
Proving unsuccessful, however, in all his efforts, he be- 
gan to batter it with every warlike engine known in that 
martial age. Animated by the example of their coura- 
geous queen, her people repulsed the aggressors with 
showers of arrows, darts, and stones. The emperor, at 
length, becoming quite tired of the toils and fatigues of 
so long a siege, wrote a letter to Zenobia, promising her 
honourable terms, and exhorting her to submit. To this 
she returned the following spirited answer. " No man 



126 ZENOIUA. NO. 

" ever, before you, made such a demand. It is not 
" by letters, but by valour, that you must induce me 
" to submit. You cannot but know, that Cleopatra 
" chose rather to die than live under Augustus, not- 
" withstanding the great promises he made to her. I 
" expect daily the Persians, Saracens, and Armenians, 
" who are all hastening to my relief. What will, then, 
" become of you and your army, whom the robbers of 
" Syria have put to flight ? You will then lay aside 
" that pride and presumption, with which you command 
" me to surrender, as if you were the conqueror of the 
" universe *." — 

The haughty Roman, though picquedby the scorn 
of this reply, was not to be deceived from his purpose. 
He immediately ordered a general assault to be made 
upon the place ; in which, however, he was repulsed 
with great loss, and obliged to give up the attempt. He 
was more fortunate, some days after, in an attack he 
directed against the Persians, who were coming to the 
assistance of the besieged ; and, by menaces and pro- 
mises, prevailed upon her other allies to join him against 
the queen whom they expected to assist. Zenobia, 
being thus disappointed, and despairing of being able 
to hold out much longer with her own forces, resolved 
to withdraw privately from the city into Persia, and 
there, in person, to solicit more powerful supplies. Ac- 
cordingly she set out, at midnight, with a small reti- 
nue on fleet dromedaries, carrying away part of her 

* Aureliam Vita in Hist. August, p. 218. and Un. Ant. Hist. Vol, 
XV. p. 455. 



ZENOBIA. 



127 



jewels and treasures. Aurelian, however, was too alert 
to permit such a prize to escape. Having received 
timely notice of her flight, he detached a party of light 
horse to intercept her progress. These, coming up with 
her when about to cross the Euphrates in a boat, seiz- 
ed and carried her back to the conqueror, who, from 
that moment, began to consider himself sole lord of the 
East. The city of Palmyra * soon after submitted, 
and was treated with a lenity as unusual in the Roman 
commander as it was unexpected by the citizens. 

Aurelian, having thus recovered and settled the 
eastern provinces, returned by Chalcedon and Byzan- 
tium into Europe, carrying with him his illustrious 
captive. His triumph, however, was degraded by an 
ignoble vengeance, and his renown sullied by the per- 
petration of cruelty. To these ungenerous passions he 
sacrificed several patriots of Palmyra, because the wis- 
dom of their counsels had governed the weakness of 
their queen's sex, and their vigour prolonged the ob- 
stinacy of her resistance. Of this number was the cel- 
ebrated Longinus, whose fame will survive that of the 
ruthless tyrant who condemned him. When the Syrian 
queen was brought into the victor's presence, he stern- 



'* Aurelian had only reached Thrace cm his homeward route, 
when the Palmyrenians revolted, put the Roman governor and gar- 
rison to the sword, and proclaimed Antiochus, one of the royal line, 
their sovereign. The emperor, on receiving this intelligence, hasted 
hack into Syria, and, arriving before Palmyra ere the inhabitants had 
any notice of his march, took the city by assault, and put all the citi- 
zens, without distinction of age or sex, to the sword. Id. ibid. 



128 ZENOBTA. ISO. 

ly asked, how she had presumed to rise in arms against 
the emperors of Rome ? Her answer displayed a pru- 
dent mixture of respect and firmness. " Because," 
said she, " I disdained to consider as Roman emper- 
" ors an Aureolus or a Gallienus. You alone I acknow- 
" ledge as my conqueror and my sovereign *."" 

But the humiliation of Zenobia did not terminate 
with her degradation from empire. She was compelled, 
by her ignominy, to swell the triumph of the stern 
Aurelian. Since the foundation of Rome, no general 
had, perhaps, so nobly won this high honour ; and it 
was celebrated with superior pride and magnificence. 
The pompous exhibition was opened by twenty ele- 
phants, four royal tigers, and above two hundred of 
the most curious animals from every climate of the 
North, the East, and the South. These were followed 
by sixteen hundred gladiators, devoted to the cruel a- 
musement of the amphitheatre. The wealth of Asia, 
the arms and ensigns of so many conquered nations, 
and the magnificent plate and wardrobe of the Syrian 
queen, were disposed in exact symmetry or artful dis-* 
order. There were four royal chariots — the first, 
which had belonged to Odenatus, was entirely covered 
with silver, gold, and jewels— another, equally rich, 
was a present to Aurelian from the king of Persia-— 
the third was Zenobia's own chariot — and the fourth, 
which was drawn by four stags, had been taken by the 
emperor from a Gothic prince. The ambassadors of the 

* Trebellius Pollio in Hist. August. Scrip. Sex, p. 199. 



XIII. ZENOBIA. 129 

most remote nations, all remarkable for the singular- 
ity or richness of their dresses, displayed the fame and 
power of Aurelian, who exposed, likewise, to the pub- 
lic view the presents he had received, and particularly 
a great number of crowns of gold, the offerings of 
grateful cities. His victories were, at the same time 
attested by the multitude of captives *, who, marching 
with their hands tied behind their backs, augmented 
this extraordinary procession. Each people was dis- 
tinguished by a peculiar inscription, and ten Gothic 
heroines were honoured with the appellation of Ama- 
zons: But every eye, disregarding the crowd of cap- 
tives, was fixed upon the humbled Tetricus a Roman 
senator who had assumed the purple, and the Queen 
of the East. This unfortunate prince, as well as his 
son, whom he had created Augustus, was dressed in 
Gaulic trowsers, a saffron tunic, and a robe of purple. 
Next to them marched Zenobia, whose uncommon 
beauty, noble stature, and majestic mien, attracted the 
eyes of the spectators, and seemed to eclipse the em- 
peror himself. Her beauteous figure was confined by 
fetters of gold. A slave, robed in the most rich and 
gaudy attire, supported the golden chain which encir- 
cled her neck : and she was so loaded with pearls, pre- 

* These consisted of Goths, Alans, Roxolans, Sarmatians, Franks, 
Suevians, Vandals, Alemans, Blemyes, Auxumites, Arabians, Eudas- 
monians, Indians, Bactrians, Iberians, Saracens, Armenians, Persians, 
Palmyrenians, Egyptians; together with some Gothic women whom 
Aurelian had taken fighting in the armour and habit of men. — Flavi- 
ns Vopiscus describes this triumph with much minuteness in Historic 
^ugustse Scriptores Sex, p. 220. He wrote, about A. D. 303. 

VOL. I. R 



130 ZENOBIA. NO. 

cious stones, and other splendid decorations, that she 
was often obliged to halt, being ready to faint under 
the intolerable weight of her jewels. She was follow- 
ed by the triumphal chariot of the conqueror, behind 
which were ranged the senate and the people of Rome 
with their various standards. The victorious legions 
closed the rear. They were equipped in rich and splen- 
did armour, with crowns of laurel on their heads, and 
branches of palm-trees, the symbols of victory, in their 
hands. In the Capitol, Aurelian sacrificed to Jupiter, 
the four stags that had drawn his chariot, after which 
he proceeded to the palace, attended by immense crowds 
of the Roman people, who gratified his pride by loud 
shouts of gratulation and applause. The next and se- 
veral following days were enlivened by plays, races in 
the circus, shews of gladiators, combats of wild-beasts, 
sea-fights in the Naumachia, and all sorts of public fes- 
tivities and entertainments. So grand was the Triumph 
of Aurelian, in which the illustrious Queen of the City 
of Palms was compelled to act so conspicuous a part. 

However Aurelian might indulge his pride by the 
humiliation of his magnanimous captive, he afterwards 
treated her with a generous clemency, which was sel- 
dom exercised by the ancient conquerors. He gave to 
Zenobia lands and possessions in the neighbourhood of 
Tibur *, sufficient to maintain her in a princely rank. 
On that estate she lived, like a Roman matron, with 

* Now Tivoli upon the banks of a small river which falls into 
the Tiber, and about twenty miles north-east from the city of Rome. 



XIII. ZENOBIA. 131 

her daughters, one of whom the emperor is said to have 
married, while her mother became the wife of an illus- 
trious Roman senator. The rest were united to per- 
sons of the first quality in the city. Her descendants 
lived at Rome in great magnificence towards the end 
of the fourth century ; and Zenobius *, the venerable 
bishop of Florence, who was contemporary with St. 
Ambrose, is believed to have been a descendant of her 
family. — Such were the interesting scenes which occu- 
pied a considerable portion of Zenobia's eventful life, 
and such the instructive vicissitudes, whereby her va- 
rious fortune may engage the intention of a reflective 
mind. 

Aurelian did not long survive this scene of splen- 
did magnificence. Conscious of the character in which 
nature and experience had enabled him to excel, he 
again took the field a few months after his triumph. 
His object was to punish the Persian monarch who, 
exulting in the shame of Valerian, still braved with 
impunity the offended majesty of Rome. At the head 
of*a valiant and welL-disciplined army he had proceed- 
ed on his expedition to the vicinity of Byzantium, when 
he was assassinated, in October A. D. 274, by Mucapor, 
a general whom he had always loved and trusted. He 
died regretted by the army, detested by the senate, but 
universally acknowledged a warlike and fortunate prince, 
the useful, though severe, reformer of a degenerate state. 

M. 



* Baronius is of this opinion, ad Ann. Doni. CCLXX1V. Vide, 
rdinalis Baronii Annales Ecclesiastici, folio, 12 Tom. RoniEe, 1580. 
R 2 



132 ON GOVERNING 



No. XIV. 



" / saw the virtuous man contend 
With life's unnumbered woes ; 

And he was poor — without a friend- 
Press' d by a thousand foes. 

iC I saw the Passion's pliant slave 

In gallant trim, and gay ; 
His course was Pleasure's placid wave, 

His life a summer day. — 

" And I was caught in Folly's snare, 

And join 'd her giddy train — 
But found her soon the nurse of Care, 

And Punishment, and Pain. 

cc There surely is some guiding Power 

Which rightly suffers wrong — 
Gives Vice to bloom its little hour — 
But Virtue, late and long !" 
Stanzas by Camoens, Ld. Strangford's Trans, p. 4$. 

PASSIONS and appetites have been implanted in 
men by their Maker for the wisest and best of purpos-r 
es. Divested of these, they would become inanimate, 
useless beings, without excitement to action, and in- 
sensible to objects of laudable and virtuous desire 
As, however, they have been placed within the human 
breast to excite emulation, to promote inquiries of im- 



XIV. THE PASSIONS. 133 

provement and beneficence, to foster a well-regulated 
ambition, and to stimulate the energies of the soul, it 
becomes a concern of the highest importance to provide 
for them a rational control and a wise direction. If 
they be allowed to gain an ascendancy over the mind, 
its liberty is annihilated, and it sinks, overwhelmed, 
beneath the weight of the most degrading and peri- 
lous slavery. But, if they be subjected to rules of or- 
der, morality, and religion, they are made to answer 
the nobler purposes to which, by the will of Heaven, 
they have been intended. It is then, that they become 
the pleasing source of uncontaminated enjoyment, of 
intellectual pleasure, and of grateful piety. Thus the 
proper government of the passions becomes a duty as 
indispensable as it is delightful to an upright mind. 

In the heart of every human being there exists some 
predominant passion to which all others are subordin- 
ate. With diligence, therefore, it behoves him to ap- 
ply himself to the discovery of that desire, by which 
he is chiefly influenced. In this research he will ac- 
quire a knowledge of his peculiar propensities together 
with the discovery of his own imperfection and weak- 
ness. He must not, however humiliating the inquiry, 
pause at this part of his progress. He must, assidu- 
ously and closely, scrutinize the most secret recesses 
of his soul, and regulate his conduct by the result of his 
observations. These will soon compel him to confess 
his imbecillity, and, perhaps reluctantly, induce him 
to look around for directive aid. Amid the objects of 
creation this is not to be found. While, therefore, he 



134 ON GOVERNING NO. 

commences the difficult task of subduing his passions 
by subjecting them to the dictates of prudence and the 
rules of enlightened reason, let him uplift the humble 
eye of a suppliant to the Omnipotent, and implore the 
help of him, who is abundant in goodness and mighty 
to save. 

Nature is content with little, but luxury knows 
no bounds. The necessary wants of man are simple 
and easily satisfied ; but, by an indulgence of the pas- 
sions, imaginary and artificial desires are created, and 
he becomes involved in a maze of incessant embarrass- 
ments during his search after something wherewith to 
gratify them. Without suppressing industrious activi- 
ty, or restraining laudable enterprize, let the youthful 
and the vigorous endeavour to cherish contentment, 
to cultivate moderation, and to acquire temperate ha- 
bits. From these a pleasure will be derived which re- 
fines the mind, invigorates the body, improves proper- 
ty, renders man superior to fortune, and places him 
out of the reach of adversity. The mind thus attem- 
pered will become the seat of exquisite felicity — of 
that happiness which only satiates but never cloys — 
and of that virtue which is the parent of regular passions, 
of sweet resignation, of happy youth, of vigorous old- 
age, and of long life free from many an hour of lan- 
gour, remorse, and pain. 

From a review of the honour and advantages to be 
derived from a rational subordination of the passions, 
let the attention be directed to the consequences of an 
unfettered gratification of licentious desire. By its 



XIV. THE PASSIONS. 135 

powerful influence, many an unhappy being has been 
led, in triumph, in the train of error and infamy ; and, 
in defiance of the most disastrous consequences, has 
been impelled by his headlong appetites to persist in 
the quest of sensual indulgence. Unlessoned by ex- 
perience, which should have taught him to know the 
fatal end of an unbridled career, he proceeds on his 
course, and is only convinced of its preposterous folly 
by the completion of his mortification, disappointment, 
and misery. 

Among the other fell passions that disturb and de- 
grade the human heart, that of anger is neither the 
least unruly, nor the least conspicuous. By a sage of 
older times it has been denominated madness ; and 
surely he is mad, who is the child of wrath and whose 
soul is the seat of rage. Like the other turbulent pas- 
sions that assail our feeble nature, this ought, though 
difficult and painful the contest, to be combated by a 
resolute and vigorous exertion of our powers and re- 
sources at our entrance upon the stage of life. At that 
period, pleasure, interest, business, power, honour, 
fame, and all the follies and all the corruptions of this 
world, combine to allure the mind from the paths of 
rectitude. But, on him who, in the beginning of his 
days, " has kept himself unspotted from the world," all 
its subsequent attractions, all its magnificence, wealth, 
and splendour, will make little impression. A mind 
that has become habituated to discipline, restraint, and 
self-command, will have nothing to apprehend from 
the most powerful temptations. Knowing well its own 



136 ON GOVERNING NO. 

strength and its own weakness, such will ever be upon 
its guard ; and, while it places an humble confidence in 
the omnipotence of the divine goodness to support it, 
and looks forward to an eternity of happiness as the re- 
ward of its well-doing, what is there that can shake its 
constancy or corrupt its fidelity ? 

This paper may now be instructively concluded by 
an example of neglect to acquire the habit of a strict 
and constant self-government. It will exhibit the pic- 
ture of a soul which aspired to give laws to the World, 
without having been able to control its own vehement 
and wrathful propensities. It is the story of Alexan- 
der *, who, in a fit of intoxicated rage, murdered one 
of his ablest warriors and most faithful servants — 
Clitus, his familiar friend and foster-brother, who had 
saved his life in a sanguinary engagement. 

" It happened in the following manner: the king 
had some Grecian fruit brought him from on board a 
vessel, and as he greatly admired its freshness and beau- 
ty, he desired Clitus to see it and partake of it. It 
happened that Clitus was offering sacrifice that day ; 
but he left it to wait upon the king. Three of the 
sheep on which the libation was already poured, fol- 
lowed him. The king, informed of that accident, con- 
sulted his soothsayers, Aristander and Cleomantes the 
Spartan, upon it ; and they assured him it was a very 
bad omen. He, therefore, ordered the victims to be 



* See Langhorne's Plutarch's Lives, London Edition, 1805- 
Vol. IV. p. 192-3-4-5. 



XIV. THE PASSIONS. 137 

Immediately offered for the health of Clitus ; the rath- 
er, because three days before he had a strange and a- 
larming dream, in which Clitus appeared in mourning, 
sitting by the dead sons of Parmenio. However, be- 
fore the sacrifice was finished, Clitus went to sup with 
the king, who that day had been paying his homage to 
Castor and Pollux. 

" After they were warmed with drinking, somebody 
began to sing the verses of one Pranicus, or, as others 
will have it, of Pierio, written in ridicule of the Mace- 
donian officers who had been beaten by the barbarians. 
The older part of the company were greatly offended 
at it, and condemned both the poet and the singer ; but 
Alexander, and those about him, listened with pleasure, 
and bade him go on. Clitus, who by this time had 
drank too much, and was naturally rough and forward, 
could not bear their behaviour. He said, " It was not 
" well done to make a jest, and that among barbarians 
" and enemies, of Macedonians who were much better 
c ' men than the laughers, though they had met with a 
" misfortune." Alexander made answer, " That Clitus 
" was pleading his own cause, when he gave cowardice 
*' the soft name of misfortune. 1 '' Then Clitus started 
up, and said, " Yet it was this cowardice that saved 
44 you, son of Jupiter as you are, when you were turn- 
" ing your back to the sword of Spithridates. It is by 
" the blood of the Macedonians and these wounds that 
" you are grown so great, that you disdain to acknow- 
" ledge Philip for your father, and will needs pass your- 
" self for the son of Jupiter Amnion." 



138 ON GOVERNING NO. 

" Irritated by this insolence, Alexander replied, " It 
" is in this villainous manner thou talkest of me in all 
" companies, and stirrest up the Macedonians to mu- 
" tiny ; but dost thou think to enjoy it long ?" « And 
" what do we now enjoy ?" said Clitus ; " what reward 
" have we for all our toils ? Do we not envy those 
" who did not live to see Macedonians bleed under Me- 
*' dian rods, or sue to Persians for access to their king? - " 
While Clitus went on in this rash manner, and the king 
retorted upon him with equal bitterness, the old men 
interposed, and endeavoured to allay the flame. Mean- 
time Alexander turned to Xenodochus the Cardian, 
and Artemius the Colophonian, and said, " Do not the 
44 Greeks appear to you among the Macedonians like 
" demigods among so many wild beasts ?" Clitus, far 
from giving up the dispute, called upon Alexander " To 
" speak out what he had to say, or not to invite free- 
" men to his table, who would declare their sentiments 
* : without reserve. But, perhaps," continued he, " it 
" were better to pass your life with barbarians and 
" slaves, who will worship your Persian girdle and 
" white robe without scruple." 

" Alexander, no longer able to restrain his anger, 
threw an apple at his face, and then looked about for 
his sword. But Aristophanes, one of his guards, had 
taken it away in time, and the company gathered about 
him, and entreated him to be quiet. Their remonstran- 
ces, however, were vain. He broke from them, and 
called out, in the Macedonian language, for his guards, 
which was the signal of a great tumult. At the same 



XIV. THE PASSIONS. 139 

time he ordered the trumpeter to sound, and struck 
him with his fist, upon his discovering an unwillingness 
to obey. This man was afterwards held in great es- 
teem, because he prevented the whole army from being 
alarmed. 

" As Clitus would not make the least submission, his 
friends, with much ado, forced him out of the room : 
but he soon returned by another door, repeating in a 
bold and disrespectful tone those verses from the An- 
dromache of Euripides: 

Are these your customs ? Is it thus that Greece 
Rewards her combatants ? Shall one man claim 
The trophies won by thousands? 

Then Alexander snatched a spear from one of his guards, 
and meeting Clitus as he was putting by the curtain, 
ran him through the body : he fell immediately to the 
ground, and with a dismal groan expired. 

" Alexander's rage subsided in a moment ; he came 
to himself; and, seeing his friends standing in silent 
astonishment by him, he hastily drew the spear out of 
the dead body, and was applying it to his own throat, 
when his guards seized his hands, and carried him by 
force into his chamber. He passed that night and the 
next day in anguish inexpressible ; and when he had 
wasted himself with tears and lamentations, he lay in 
speechless grief, uttering only now and then a groan. 
His friends, alarmed at this melancholy silence, forced 
themselves into the room, and attempted to console 
him : but he would listen to none of them, except Aris- 

s2 



140 ON GOVERNING THE PASSIONS. NO. 

tander, who put him in mind of his dream and the ill 
omen of the sheep, and assured him that the whole was 
by the decree of fate. As he seemed a little comforted, 
Callisthenes the philosopher, Aristotle's near relation, 
and Anaxarchus the Abderite, were called in. Callis- 
thenes began in a soft and tender manner, endeavour- 
ing to relieve him without searching the wound. But 
Anaxarchus, who had a particular walk in philosophy, 
and looked upon his fellow-labourers in science with 
contempt, cried out, on entering the room, " Is this 
" Alexander, upon whom the whole work! have their 
" eyes ? Can it be he who lies extended on the ground, 
" crying like a slave, in fear of the law and the tongues 
" of men, to whom he should himself be a law and the 
" measure of right and wrong? What did he conquer 
" for, but to rule and command, not servilely to submit 
" to the vain opinions of men ? Know you not," con- 
tinued he, " that Jupiter is represented with Themis 
" and Justice by his side, to show that whatever is 
" done by supreme power is right ?" By this, and 
other discourses of the same kind,, he alleviated the 
king's grief, indeed, but made him withal more haugh- 
ty and unjust. At the same time, he insinuated him- 
self into his favour in so extraordinary a manner, that 
lie could no longer bear the conversation of Callisthenes,, 
who before was not very agreeable on account of his 
austerity.' 1 



DESCRIPTION OF THE ALTGRANDE, 141 



No. XV. 

" Among the heathy hills and ragged moods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow , 
' As deep-recoiling surges foam below, 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, 
And viewless echo's ear, asionish'd, rends. 
Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless showers, 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lowers. 
Still through the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below, the horrid cauldron boils." — 

Burns' Works, Lond. Edit. 1809, Vol. III. p. 363-4.. 

NATURAL Beauty exhibits many subjects of in- 
teresting contemplation. Its simple traits become 
pleasing by a kind of agreeable attraction, while its 
grander features overawe by their sublimity or aston- 
ish by the vastness of their forms. Combined with 
such influence are those associations which delight the 
wanderers of the wild, and the roamers in secluded and 
lonely retreats- — which furnish that exquisite enjoy- 
ment discovered by many, while they trace the bold 
lineaments of picturesque scenery, displayed in the 
combination of rocks, and groves, and dells, and lakes, 
and roaring torrents. — A description of such a picture, 
rude, remote, and romantic, is attempted in the sub- 
joined 



142 DESCRIPTION OF NO, 

EPISTLE, 

My Dear Friend, 

Being, as you well know, a 
great admirer of natural scenery, I took an opportuni- 
ty, some time ago, when at Dingwall in Ross-shire, 
to engage in a little excursion, the result of which af- 
forded me abundant gratification. As I am hopeful 
that an account of it may be agreeable to you, I shall 
proceed in the detail with all possible brevity. 

Having, on frequent occasions, heard the Altgrande 
mentioned as a stream that flowed through a country 
singularly romantic, I resolved, in company with an 
intelligent acquaintance, to visit the interesting spot. 
In completion of this design, we traversed the banks of 
the river, from its mouth to the sources whence its in- 
fant waters proceed, and are thereby enabled to give 
you the topography of a scene, little known but de- 
lightfully picturesque and wild. 

The Altgrande* originates in the collected springs 
which descend the sides of Ben-Rannach, Ben-Glas, 
and the north-eastern declivities of Ben-Uais. In the 
valley between the two last mentioned mountains these 
waters form Loch-Glas, a beautiful inland lake, situ- 
ated at the distance of six miles from the sea. It is 



* This stream takes its name from two Celtic words, Alt, sig- 
nifying a brook or torrent, and Granda, what is deformed, rugged, 
or shaggy. — The Inn at Drummond will accommodate the Tourist who 
may choose to visit the romantic alpine scenery on the banks of that 
impetuous stream. 



XV. THE ALTGRANDE. 143 

of considerable depth, five miles long, and nearly one 
in breadth. Except in severe frosts, it never freezes, 
and is abundant in trouts of an excellent flavour, though 
not of a large size. Flowing out of the extremity of 
this lake at Balnacoul, the river, receiving many tri- 
butary streamlets in its course, passes Assint, and then 
taking an eastern direction, falls into the Bay of Crom- 
arty, at the bleaehfield of Culcairn. 

The banks of the Altgrande, are thickly covered 
with shrubs and trees, which greatly adorn its steep 
and rugged sides. It is, at all times, a tumultuous cur- 
rent ; but, when it becomes swollen by the melting of 
snow upon the surrounding mountains or by great falls 
of rain, it rushes down with resistless rapidity, over- 
flowing its margins, inundating the adjacent fields, and 
sweeping before it every obstacle to its impetuous ca- 
reer. About two miles from its source, the bed of the 
river is much contracted by the sides of a rock, rugged, 
vast, and stupendous, named Craig-Grande, through 
which with difficulty it urges its boisterous way. The 
channel, here, is a profound chasm formed by two 
opposing precipices, abrupt and elevated. Through 
this gloomy and dreadful abyss, the river toils away, 
over a space of more than two miles. The entrance 
into the terrific gully is distinguished by a bold rock 
jutting into the stream, whereby its breadth is greatly 
diminished. From this place, it rolls, and roars, and 
rages, and labours onward, with excessive vehemence 
and velocity for about thirteen hundred yards, when a 
sudden projection of the crag again confines its conrsr . 



144 DESCRIPTION OF XV. 

and produces a view which, upon a spectator from the 
impending cliffs, has a very impressive and sublime ef- 
fect. Thus interrupted, the angry waters are thrown 
into a state of violent gurgitation, and, writhing, foam- 
ing, floundering, dashing around, beat the obstructing 
barrier with a force inconceivably powerful and furious. 
Strengthening as it struggles, the torrent now darts 
erect, and, with a bounding rush, shoots through a 
winding passage on the opposite side, then rough, reel- 
ing, and resistless, bounds along. 

Beyond this obstructive bar, the chasm through 
which the river now proceeds, greatly increases in 
depth and straitness. In many places, the stream is hid 
from the view by the thick umbrage of trees and the 
beetling sides of the precipitous rocks with which its 
channel is confined. About four hundred yards farth- 
er down, a slight wooden bridge has been thrown over 
the abyss, at a place where its width does not exceed 
fifteen feet. From this an intrepid observer will be 
gratified with a view beneath him, supremely grand 
and impressive. The combination unites a display of 
scenery at once picturesque'ar.d sublime — awful and as- 
tonishing. The gray rocks are steep and rugged, 
while their dark cliffs and caverns, into which the sun 
never penetrated, teem with the dreary silence of gloom 
and horror. Ingulfed at the depth of one hundred and 
thirty feet below, the labouring stream emits a hoarse 
and hollow murmur, which is increased by the undu- 
lating sounds of many descending rills. This savage 
association is, however, finely contrasted with thick 






XV. THE ALTGRANDE. 145 

groves of pines, which majestically climb the sides of 
a beautiful eminence that rises immediately from the 
brink of the tremendous chasm. Throughout the re- 
mainder of its course the river is less interrupted ; 
and, after crossing the public road between Drum- 
mond and the parish church, where a very neat well- 
finished bridge is thrown over it, falls into the Frith 
of Cromarty, a fine arm of the sea. 

Leaving the Inn at Drummond, we proceeded in 
our return to Dingwall, by a charming road, command- 
ing many delightful views, and embellished with much 
romantic scenery. Upon the left hand expands the 
Bay of Cromarty, and beyond, is the village of Fern- 
tosh celebrated for excellent whisky. Trees and shrubs 
of various kinds cover the rising grounds upon the left, 
relieving the eye and giving an agreeable diversity to 
the landscape. Among other objects of notice there is, 
on that side, a perpendicular rock of considerable ele- 
vation, covered with brushwood, which conceals the na- 
tural cascade of a mountain rill. Beside this, there is an 
artificial grove, havingseats planted around with flowers, 
and some romantic decorations fixed on the face of the 
rock, the whole throwing a picturesque air over this 
pleasant rural retreat. 

But our attention was more engaged by an ac- 
count of the remains of a venerable Druidic temple 
situated upon the top of an eminence, and we there- 
fore resolved to visit it. The places devoted to sacred 
worship by the primeval priests of our progenitors were 
simple, but,, at the same time, very expressive of the 
vot, r, T 



146 DESCRIPTION OP NO 

exalted idpas they entertained, and wished to convey, 
of the Divinity. They adored the Sovereign Creator 
beneath the wide expanse of the sky, and the spot con- 
secrated to their devotions was defined by circles of un- 
hewn stones, placed upright and at certain intervals^ 
Of a similar construction is that which we visited. It 
is situated about half a mile west from the mansion of 
Mountgerald, nearly five hundred yards north from 
the road, and consists of one row of twelve large e- 
rect stones so disposed as to form two conjoined ovals. 
Of these, the areas are equal, being thirteen feet from 
east to west, and ten in the centre from south to north. 
The stones are of various length, seldom exceeding 
five feet, except that at the west end of one of the 
areas, which rises eight feet above the surface of the 
earth. In the middle of this oval, is a flat stone, which 
probably had been used as a cromlech or sacrificial altar, 
consecrated to the rites of departed days. 

The rising ground, which contains the ruins of this 
druidic fane, is surrounded by three concentric circles, 
the lowest of which encompasses the base and measures 
about eighty paces ; another is thirty feet higher, and 
is fifty paces ; and the third is only thirty-five, being 
the most elevated.— By a consideration of this singular 
arrangement, we were disposed to ascribe this remark- 
able relic of antiquity to that class of remains which re- 
search and learning have ranked, with the utmost pro- 
bability, among the labours of the votaries of Druidism. 
It must not, however, be denied, that ingenuity has 
sriven them a place anions the rude fabrics constructed 



XVI. THE ALTGRANDE. 147 

by a Gothic people for the purposes of deliberative con- 
vention, where the wisdom of the chiefs was inculcated, 
and the judgment of the tribes ascertained. But, to 
whatever uses this and similar constructions may have 
been devoted, they are to be regarded by us, as the 
reverend seclusions, wherein our fathers convened for 
the exercise of piety, the administration of justice, or 
th - ascertainment of counsel and the promulgation of 
law. 

I am, &c. 

Triaixan. 



No. XVI. 

<e Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear, 
Of Irish swains potatoe is the chear ; 
Oats for their feasts, the Scottish shepherds grind, 
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind, 
While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise, 
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoe prize." 

Gay's Shepherd's-Week, No. I. v. 83—88. 

INCREDIBLY various have been the ridiculous 
pursuits of men in their researches after the pleasures 
of enjoyment. On this roll of folly stands, in a place 
not unconspicuous, the Tulipomania, or that passion 
which once agitated a great part of Europe and still 
continues to interest many individuals, in acquiring 

t 2 



148 TULIPOMANIA. NO, 

varieties of that species of plants from which the term 
is derived. As an account of its rise and progress is 
curious, in this place, a brief sketch of it, taken from a 
popular work, may tend to amuse. 

The greater part of the flowers which adorn our 
gardens have been brought to us from the Levant. A 
few have been procured from other parts of the world ; 
and some of our own indigenous plants, that grow wild, 
have, by care and cultivation, been so much improved 
as to merit a place in our parterres. Our ancestors, 
perhaps, some centuries ago paid attention to flowers ; 
but it appears that the Orientals, and particularly the 
Turks, who in other respects are not very susceptible 
of the inanimate beauties of nature, were the first peo- 
ple who cultivated a variety of them in their gardens 
for ornament and pleasure. From their gardens, 
therefore, have been procured the most of those which 
decorate ours ; and among these is the tulip. 

Few plants acquire through accident, weakness, or 
disease, so many tints, variegations, and figures as the 
tulip. When uncultivated and in its natural state, it 
is almost of one colour ; has large leaves and an extra- 
ordinary long stem. When it has been weakened by 
culture, it becomes more agreeable in the eyes of the 
florist. The petals are then paler, more variegated, 
and smaller ; the leaves assume a fainter or softer green 
colour: and this masterpiece of culture, the more beau- 
tiful it turns, grows so much the weaker, so that, with 
the most careful skill and attention, it can scarcely be 
transplanted, and even scarcely kept alive. 



XVI. TULIPOMAKTIA. 149 

That the tulip grows wild in the Levant, and was 
thence brought to us, may be proved by the testimony 
of many writers. Busbequius saw them on the road 
between Adrianople and Constantinople ; Shaw found 
them in Syria, in the plains between Jaffa and Rama; 
and Chardin on the northern confines of Arabia. The 
early blowing kinds, it appears, were brought to Con- 
stantinople from Cayal, and the late blowing from 
Caffa ; and on this account the former are called by 
the Turks Cavala lale, and the latter Cqffe Idle. Ca- 
val is a town on the eastern coast of Macedonia, of 
which Paul Lucas gives some account ; and Caffa is 
a city in the Crimea, or peninsula of Gazaria, as it 
was called, in the middle ages, from the Gazares, a 
people very little known. 

Though florists have published numerous catalogues 
of the species of the tulip, botanists are acquainted on- 
ly with two, or at most three *, of which scarcely one 
is indigenous in Europe. All those found in our gar- 
dens have been propagated from the species named af- 
ter that learned man, to whom natural history is so 
much indebted, Conrad Gesner, the Linnaeus of the six- 
teenth century, who first made the tulip known by a 
botanical description and a figure. In his additions to 

* Modern Botanists distinguish seven species of the Tillipa, the 
Sylvcstris, which grows in Britain, in other parts of Europe, and in Si- 
beria ; the Suaveolens, in the south of Europe ; the Gesncriana, in 
Cappadocia and Russia ; the Biflora, on the desartsof the Volga; the 
Breyniana, at the Cape of Good Hope ; the Celsiana, in the East ; and 
the Chisiana, in Persia. 



150 TULIPOMANIA. NO, 

the works of Valerius Cordus, he tells us, that he saw 
the first in the beginning of April, 1559, at Augsburg, 
in the garden of the learned and ingenious counsellor 
John Henry Herwart. The seeds had been brought 
from Constantinople, or according to others from Cap- 
padocia. This flower was then known in Italy, under 
the name of tulipa, or tulip, which is said to be of Tur- 
kish extraction, and given to it on account of its re- 
sembling a tulbent or turban. 

Balbinus asserts, that Busbequius brought the first 
tulip roots to Prague, from which they were afterwards 
spread all over Germany. This is not improbable : 
for Busbequius says, in a letter written in 1554, that 
this flower was then new to him, and it is known that 
besides coins and manuscripts he collected also natural 
curiosities, and brought them with him from the Levant. 
Nay, he himself says, that he paid very dear to the 
Turks for these tulips ; but I do not find he any where 
says that he was the first who brought them from the 
East. 

In the year 1565 there were tulips in the Garden of 
Mr Fugger, from whom Gesner wished to procure 
some. They first appeared in Provence, in France, 
in the garden of the celebrated Peyresc, in the year 
1611. 

After the tulip was known, Dutch merchants, and 
rich people at Vienna, who were fond of flowers, sent, 
at different times, to Constantinople for various kinds. 
The first roots planted in England were sent thither 
from Vienna, about the end of the sixteenth century, 



XVI. TULIPOMANIA. 151 

according to Hakluyt. He is, however, wrong in 
ascribing to Clusius the honour of having first intro- 
duced them into Europe ; for that naturalist only col- 
lected and described all the then known species. 

These flowers, which are of no farther use than to 
ornament gardens, which are exceeded in beauty by- 
many other plants, and whose duration is short, and 
very precarious, became, in the middle of the last cen- 
tury, the object of a trade, such as is not to be met 
with in the history of commerce, and by which their 
price rose above that of the most precious metals. An 
account of this trade has been given by many authors ; 
but by all late ones it has been misrepresented. Peo- 
ple laugh at the Tulipomania, because they believe 
that the beauty and rarity of the flowers induced flor- 
ists to give such extravagant prices : they imagine that 
the tulips were purchased so excessively dear, in order 
to ornament gardens ; but this supposition is false, as 
I shall shew hereafter. 

This trade was not carried on throughout all Eu- 
rope C but in some cities of the Netherlands, particu- 
larly Amsterdam, Harlem, Utrecht, Alkmar, Leyden, 
Rotterdam, Hoorn, Enkhuysen and Meedenbliek ; and 
rose to the greatest height in the years 1634, 35, 36 
and 37. Munting has given, from some of the books 
kept during that trade, a few of the prices then paid, 
of which I shall present the reader with the following, 
For a root of that species called the Viceroy, the after- 
mentioned articles, valued as expressed below, were 
agreed to bo delivered. 



153 TULIPOMANIA. NO. 

florins, 
2 lasts of wheat ~*»~~*~*~»»*~ %/ ** % ^4AS 
4 ditto rye ~~~~~~~~~~~~~,~~558 

4 fat oxen ~~~ ~~ 480 

8 fat swine «~240 

12 fat sheep 120 

2 hogsheads of wine~~~~ — ~~~~~ 70 
4 tons beer ~~^,.~~~~~~~~~~.~,~32 

2 ditto butter . 192 

1000 pounds of cheese ^ ~120 

a complete bed ^~~~^~~,.,.w~~100 
a suit of clothes — ww . — w ~~ — 80 
a silver beaker ^^.^^^^v^ 60 

Sum 2500 =£250 Ster. 

These tulips afterwards were sold according to the 
weight of the roots. Four hundred perits * of Admir- 
al Liefken cost 4400 florins ; 446 ditto of Admiral Von 
der Eyk, 1620 florins ; 106 perits Schilder cost 1615 
florins ; 200 ditto Semper Augustus, 5500 florins ; 
410 ditto Viceroy, 3000 florins, &c. The species Sem- 
per Augustus has been often sold for 2000 florins; and 
it once happened, that there were only two roots of 
it to be had, the one at Amsterdam and the other at 
Harlem. For a root of this species, one agreed to 
give 4600 florins, together with a new carriage, two 
gray horses, and a complete harness. Another agreed 

* A perit is a small weight less than a grain. 



XVI. TULIPOMANIA. 153 

to give twelve acres of land for a root : for those who 
had not ready money, promised their moveable and 
immoveable goods, house and lands, cattle and clothes. 
A man, whose name Hunting * once knew, but could 
not recollect, won by this trade more than 60,000 
florins in the course of four months. It was follow- 
ed not only by mercantile people, but also by the 
first noblemen, citizens of every description, mechan- 
ics, seamen, farmers, turf-diggers, chimney-sweeps, 
footmen, maid-servants, old clothes-women, and others. 
At first, every one won and no one lost. Some of 
the poorest people gained in a very few months houses, 
coaches and horses, and figured away like the first 
characters in the land. In every town some tavern was 
selected which served as a 'Change, where high and low 
traded in flowers, and confirmed their bargains with 
the most sumptuous entertainments. They formed 
laws for themselves, and had their notaries and clerks. 
When one reflects seriously on this trade, one will 
readily perceive, that to get possession of these flowers, 
was not the real object of it, though many have repre- 
sented it in that light. The price of tulips rose always 
higher from the year 1634 to the year 1637 ; but had 
the object of the purchaser been to get possession of the 
flowers, the price in such a length of time must have 
fallen instead of risen. " Raise the prices of the pro- 
duction of agriculture, when you wish to reduce them, 15 

* Naauwkeurige beschryving der aardgewassen, door Abraham 
Munting, Leyden en Utrecht, folio, 1696. 



154 TULIPOMANIA. NO. 

says Young ; and in this he is undoubtedly right, for 
a great consumption causes a greater reproduction. 
This has been sufficiently proved by the price of aspar- 
agus at Gottingen. As it was much sought after, and 
large prices paid for it, more of it was planted, and the 
price has fallen. In like manner plantations of tulips 
would have in a short time been formed in Holland, 
and florists would have been able to purchase flowers 
at a much lower price. But this was not done ; and 
the chimney-sweeper, who threw aside his besom, did 
not become a gardener, though he was a dealer in 
flowers. Roots would have been imported from dis- 
tant countries, as asparagus was from Hanover and 
Brunswick to Gottingen ; the high price would have 
induced people to go to Constantinople to purchase 
roots, as the Europeans to Golconda and Visapour to 
procure precious stones : but the dealers in tulips con- 
fined themselves to their own country, without think- 
ing of long journeys. I will allow that a flower might 
have become scarce, and consequently dearer ; but it 
would have been impossible for the price to rise to a 
great height, and continue so for a year. How ridi- 
culous would it have been to have purchased useless 
roots with their weight of gold, if the possession of the 
flower had been the only object ! Great is the folly of 
mankind; but they are not fools without a cause, as they 
would have been under such circumstances. 

During the time of the Tulipomania, a speculator 
often offered and paid large sums for a root which he 
never received, and never wished to receive. Another 



XVI. TULIPOMANIA. 155 

sold roots which he never possessed or delivered. Oft 
did a nobleman purchase of a chimney-sweep tulips to 
the amount of 2000 florins, and sold them at the same 
time to a farmer; and neither the nobleman, chim- 
ney-sweep, or farmer had roots in their possession, or 
wished to possess them. Before the tulip season was 
over, more roots were sold and purchased, bespoke, and 
promised to be delivered, than in all probability were 
to be found in the gardens of Holland ; and when Sem- 
per Augustus was not to be had, which happened twice, 
no species perhaps was oftener purchased and sold. In 
the space of six years, as Munting tells us, more than 
ten millions were expended in this trade, in only one 
town of Holland. 

To understand this gambling traffic, it may be ne- 
cessary to make the following supposition. A noble- 
man bespoke of a merchant a tulip root, to be delivered 
in six months, at the price of 1000 florins. During 
these six months the price of that species of tulip must 
have risen or fallen, or remained as it was. We shall 
suppose, that at the expiration of that time the price 
was 1,500 florins; in that case, the nobleman did not 
wish to have the tulip, and the merchant paid him 500 
florins, which the latter lost and the former won. If 
the price was fallen when the six months were expired, 
so that a root could be purchased for 800 florins, the 
nobleman then paid to the merchant 200 florins, which 
he received as so much gain ; but if the price continued 
the same, that is, 1000 florins, neither party gained or 
lost. In all these circumstances, however, no one ever 

v2 



156 TULIPOMANIA. MO. 

thought of delivering the roots or of receiving them. 
Henry Hunting, in 1636, sold to a merchant at Alk- 
mar, a tulip root for 7000 florins, to be delivered in six 
months ; but as the price during that time had fallen, 
the merchant paid, according to agreement, only ten 
per cent. « So that my father,"" says the son, " receiv- 
ed 700 florins for nothing ; but he would much rather 
have delivered the root itself for 7000." The term of 
these contracts was often much shorter, and on that ac- 
count the trade became brisker. In proportion as more 
gained by this traffic, more engaged in it ; and those 
who had money to pay to one, had soon money to re- 
ceive of another ; as at faro, one loses upon one card, 
and at the same time wins on another. The tulip deal- 
ers often discounted sums also, and transferred their 
debts to one another ; so that large sums were paid 
without cash, without bills, and without goods, as by 
the Virements at Lyons. The whole of this trade was 
a game at hazard, as the Missisippi trade was after* 
wards, and as stock-jobbing Is at present. The only 
difference between the tulip-trade and stock-jobbing is, 
that at the end of the contract the price in the latter is 
determined by the Stock-exchange ; whereas in the for- 
mer it was determined by that at which most bargains 
were made. High and low priced kinds of tulips were 
procured, in order that both the rich and the poor 
might gamble with them ; and the roots were weighed 
by perits, that an imagined whole might be divided, 
and that people might not only have whole, but half 
and quarter lots. Whoever is surprised that such a 



XVI. TULIPOMANIA. 157 

traffic should become general, needs only to reflect up- 
on what is done where lotteries are established, by 
which trades are often neglected, and even abandoned, 
because a speedier mode of getting fortunes is pointed 
out to the lower classes. In short, the tulip-trade may 
very well serve to explain stock-jobbing, of which so 
much is written in gazettes, and of which so many talk 
in company without understanding it ; and I hope on 
that account, I shall be forgiven for employing so much 
time in illustrating what I should otherwise have con- 
sidered as below my notice. 

At length, however, this trade fell all of a sudden. 
Among such a number of contracts many were broken ; 
many had engaged to pay more than they were able ; 
the whole stock of the adventurers was consumed by 
the extravagance of the winners ; new adventurers no 
more engaged in it ; and many becoming sensible of 
the odious traffic in which they had been concerned, 
returned to their former occupations. By these means, 
as the value of tulips still fell, and never rose, the sel- 
lers wished to deliver the roots in natura to the pur- 
chasers at the prices agreed on ; but as the latter had 
no desire for tulips at even such a low rate, they refus- 
ed to take them or to pay for them. To end this dis- 
pute, the tulip-dealers of Alkmar sent in the year 1637 
deputies to Amsterdam, and a resolution was passed on 
the 24th of February, that all contracts made prior to 
the last of November, 1638, should be null and void; 
and that, in those made after that date, purchasers 
should be free on paying ten per cent, to the vender. 



158 TULIPOMAttlA. XO. 

The more disgusted people became with this trade, 
the more did complaints increase to the magistrates of 
the different towns ; but as the courts there would take 
no cognizance of it, the complainants applied to the 
States of Holland and West Friesland. These refer- 
red the business to the determination of the provincial 
council at the Hague, which on the 27th of April de- 
clared, that it would not deliver its opinion on this 
traffic until it had received more information on the 
subject ; that in the mean time every vender should of- 
fer his tulips to the purchaser ; and, in case he refused 
to receive them, the vender should either keep them, 
or sell them to another, and have recourse on the pur- 
chaser for any loss he might sustain. It was ordered 
also, that all contracts should remain in force till far- 
ther enquiry was made. But as no one could foresee 
what judgment would be given respecting the validity 
of each contract, the buyers were more obstinate in re- 
fusing payment than before ; and venders, thinking it 
much safer to accommodate matters amicably, were at 
length satisfied with a small profit instead of exorbitant 
gain : and thus ended this extraordinary traffic, or 
rather gambling. 

It is however certain, that persons fond of flowers* 
particularly in Holland, have paid, and still pay, very 
high prices for tulips, as the catalogues of florists shew *. 

* In the year 1769, the dearest kinds in England were Don Que- 
vedo and Valentinier. The former sold at two guineas and the latter 
at £2 1 2 6. In the German catalogues none of the prices were so. 
high. In those published of late in London, the highest rates for tulips 
were, from 10, 20, 30, to 40 pounds sterling each. 



XVI. TULIPOMANIA. 159 

This may be called the lesser Tulipomania, which has 
given occasion to many laughable circumstances. When 
John Balthasar Schuppe was in Holland, a merchant 
gave a herring to a sailor who had brought him some 
goods. The sailor, seeing some valuable tulip roots 
lying about, which he considered as of little conse- 
quence, thinking them to be onions, took some of them 
unperceived, and ate them with his herring. Through 
this mistake the sailor's breakfast cost the merchant a 
much greater sum than if he had treated the Prince of 
Orange. No less laughable is the anecdote of an Eng- 
lishman who traveled with Matthews. Being in a 
Dutchman's garden, he pulled a couple of tulips, on 
which he wished lo make some botanical observations," 
and put them in his pocket ; but he was apprehended 
as a thief, and obliged to pay a considerable sum be- 
fore he could obtain his liberty. 

Reimman and others accuse Justus Lipsius of the 
Tulipomania; but if, by this word we understand 
that gambling traffic which I have described, the ac- 
cusation is unfounded. Lipsius was fond of scarce and 
beautiful flowers, which he endeavoured to procure by 
the assistance of his friends, and which he cultivated 
himself with great care in his garden ; but this taste 
can be by no means called a mania. That he might 
relax and refresh his mind, worn out by study, he a- 
mused himself with the cultivation of his garden and 
of flowers, and particularly of tulips, the roots of which 
he was at great pains to procure from all parts of the 
world, by means of Dodoneus, Clusius, and 3k)isotus 5 



160 TULIPOMANIA. NO. 

men singularly well skilled in horticulture, and by 
others of his friends. Thus employed, at a distance 
from civil tumult, with a cheerful countenance and pla- 
cid eye, he sauntered through his plants and flowers, 
contemplating sometimes one declining, sometimes a- 
nother springing up, and forgetting all his cares amid 
the pleasures which these objects afforded him. Other 
learned men of the same age were fond of flowers, such 
as John Barclay * the celebrated author of Argenis, 
Fompeius de Angelis, and others, who would probably 
have been so, even though the cultivation of flowers 
had not been the prevailing taste. It however cannot 
be denied, that learned men may be infected with epi- 
demical follies. In the present age, many have be- 
come physiognomists, because physiognomy is in fash- 
ion ; and even animal magnetism has met with partisans 
to support it-f*. The subjects infected with the Biblio- 
mania, a rage for scarce books, are no less numerous 
and eminent. A noble Marquis, at the sale of the late 
Duke of Roxburgh's library, gave the enormous sum 
of £29,60 for a copy of Boccaccio's Decameron. It 
was printed in 1471 and is a small folio volume ! 

* He rented a house near the Vatican, with a garden, in which 
he had planted the choicest flowers, and those chiefly which are not 
propagated from seeds or roots, but from bulbs. These flowers were 
not known about thirty years before, nor had they been ever seen at 
Rome, but lay neglected in the Alps. Of those kinds, which have 
no smell, but are esteemed only on account of their colours, Barclay 
was remarkably fond, and purchased their bulbs at a great price, 
Erythrcei Pinacotheca, Lipsis, 1712, 8vo. Vol. iii. p. 623. 

f Beckman's History of Inventions and Discoveries, translated 
by Johnston, London, 1797, Vol. I. p. 36 — 51. 



XVII. ©N THE CLASSIC ELYSIUM. 161 

No. XVII. 

-■" The soul of man was made to walk the sMeSj 
Delightful outlet of her prison here 1 
There, disincumber d from her chains, the ties 
Of toys terrestrial, she can rove at large ; 
There, freely can respire, dilate, extend, 
I n full proportion let loose all her powers, 
And, undeluded, grasp at something great." 

Young's Complaint, Night IX. v. 101 S — 1024. 

IN the soul of man there exists a certain principle 
"rvhich inspires him with a dread of oblivion, and inces- 
santly prompts him to aspire to immortality. By this, 
his wishes are formed and his actions are regulated. 
It likewise enables him to cultivate the laudable desire 
of becoming eminent in the pursuits which reason and 
religion approve, while it acts as a faithful monitor, 
counteracting the inclinations that would mislead him 
into habits of error and depravity. Originating from 
the same source, his observation leads him to distin- 
guish the coeval race into two grand classes, and to 
court the society and imitate the actions of those who 
constitute the association which he approves. The one 
order includes the children of virtue in whom conscious 
rectitude is present, as the pledge of future happiness. 
The other consists of those unhappy beings, who, amid 
the enjoyment of sensual gratification and the comple- 
tion of their intemperate desires, are perpetually sub- 



162 ON THE CLASSIC ELYSIUM NO. 

jectetl to self-reproach, and annoyed by the painful 
presentiments of a retributory hereafter, wherein they 
must be subjected to wants not to be relieved and to 
wretchedness never to be alleviated. 

The belief and the practice of all nations, in every 
age, attest the truth of this observation. Convinced, 
therefore, by constant experience of the restricted- and 
transitory nature of human existence, and excited by 
its influence upon the mind, men have ever been an- 
xious to define what, they believed would be the ever- 
lasting repository of their being and their bliss, as a 
state replete with each object of virtuous desire, in a 
place teeming, agreeably to their conceptions, with 
every congenial accompaniment. To those, also, in 
whom the predominancy of folly and vice may have 
produced dissimilar habits and practices, the same dis- 
criminative propensity has adjudged a co-existent con- 
dition supremely the reverse. To such an abode of 
permanent felicity the term heaven, in our language, 
has been applied, and, to the other, that of hell, the 
dismal residence of ever-during misery, of want, and 
of woe. — 

The Mythology of every race has been eloquent in 
the definition of these very different abodes. As, how- 
ever, the belief of primeval nations is extensively vari- 
ous respecting their Place of Bliss, the present specula- 
tion will be confined to a descriptive sketch of the future 
dwellings of the virtuous, as defined by the classic 
philosophers, and by the priests of our ancestors, the 
Gothic and Celtic people of earlier times. 



xvir. Ott THE CLASSIC ELYSIUM. 163 

Heaven, by the ancients denominated Elysium, 
and Elysian Fields, is the repository of the souls of 
the good after death, where they enjoy perpetual fe- 
licity and reap the repose to which their benevolence to 
mankind and their exploits during life seemed to entitle 
them. By some mythologists this delightful retreat 
was placed in the Fortunate Islands *, situated off the 
coast of Africa, in the Atlantic Ocean. Others consid- 
er them to have existed in Leuce, a small triangular 
island in the Euxine Sea, between the mouths of the 
Danube and the Borysthenes, and famed as the spot 
where Achilles celebrated his nuptials with Helen, and 
shared the pleasures of the place with the manes of 
Ajax, one of the bravest Greeks who conducted the 
Trojan war. Lucian assigns them a place in the vi- 
cinity of the moon, and Plutarch fixes their locality in 
the centre of the earth, while Virgil declares them to 
be situated in Italy. 

In whatever portion of space the Elsysian Fields 
may be represented to exist, they are always described 
as abounding with every object of desire and delight. 
The happiness of the inhabitants was unalloyed and 
complete, their pleasures innocent and refined. They 
solaced themselves in bowers forever green, or strayed 

* They are supposed to be the Canary Islands of the moderns. — 
When they had been described to Sertorius in the most fascinating co- 
lours, that celebrated general is said to have expressed a wish to re- 
tire thither, and to remove himself from the noise of the world, and 
the dangers of war. Plutarch's Lives by Langhorne, London Edit. 
1805, Vol. IV. p. 345. 

X 2 



164 ON THE CLASSIC ELYSIUM. NO. 

through delightful meadows or umbrageous lawns, scent- 
ed with the sweetest odours of fragrant flowers, and 
washed by the waters of rivulets ever tranquil and pure. 
The air was wholesome, temperate, and serene. An in- 
cessant melody pervaded the groves, produced by the 
choral warblings of every songster of the wood. The 
blissful dwellers were also cheered by the enliven- 
inp r radiance of another sun, and the silver lustre of oth- 
er stars. There, departed heroes exercised themselves 
in congenial amusements ; they mimicked the toils of 
war and the labours of the chase, and regaled themselves 
amid visionary orgies, listening to songs of renown. 
Sages, there, expatiated on moral and philosophic 
themes; while to every inmate of that happy clime there 
were objects to satiate the most varied longings of vir- 
tuous desire. 

Such embellished descriptions, however, are only 
popular charms intended to lure unreflecting minds. 
The genuine opinions of the sages of old respecting the 
future residence and felicity of the good- may be better 
ascertained from the pen of Cicero, whose name will 
be co-evai with wisdom and his renown with the race 
of men. In that beautiful episode, known by the ap- 
pellation of Scipio's Dream, wherein under the char- 
acter of iEmilianus, he relates his own sentiments re- 
garding a future state. He imagines an interview 
between Masinissa a veteran Numidian prince and the 
young Roman, who gives such an account of it as the 
following. 

I accost Masinissa. The old man clasps me in his 



XVII. ©N THE CLASSIC ELYSIUM, 165 

arms and bathes me with his tears. He raises his eyes 
to heaven and exclaims : " Thou, Sun ! and ye, Ce- 
lestial Deities ! accept my thanks. I receive, before I 
die, in my kingdom and my habitation, the illustrious 
heir of the most virtuous man and the matchless com- 
mander, who still survives in my remembrance.' 1 — 

During the night, my mind being occupied with 
the conversation of Masinissa, I dreamed that African- 
ers appeared before me. I trembled, overpowered with 
respect and dread. Africanus exhorted me to be of 
good cheer, and carried me with him to the summit of 
the empyrean, to a place glorious and fair, and brilliant 
with stars. He thus addressed me : " Look down and 
behold that city. It is Carthage. I compelled her to 
submit to the Roman people : in two years thou wilt 
raze her to the ground, and merit, by thine own a- 
chievements, the name of Africanus, which as yet thou 
only inheritest from me. Know, for thy encourage- 
ment in virtue, that there is a place in heaven set apart 
for the just. What on earth is denominated life, is but 
death. Existence commences only in the everlasting 
mansions of souls, and thither we cannot arrive without 
piety, religion, justice, respect to our parents, and de- 
votion to our country. Learn, above all, to despise 
the recompenses of mortals. Thou here seest how 
small is the earth — how small a space the most exten- 
sive kingdoms occupy on the globe, which thou canst 
scarcely discern— how many desarts and seas divide the 
nations from each other. What then should be the ob- 
ject of thy ambition ? Has the fame of Rome ever 



166 ON THE VALHALLA No. 

reached the summits of Caucasus or the banks of the 
Ganges ? How many nations in the east, in the west, 
in the north, and in the south, will never hear the name 
of Afric3nus ? And as for those that now pronounce 
it, how long will they continue to speak of him? They 
will soon be no more. In the convulsions of empires, 
in those great revolutions which time brings about, my 
memory will be irrecoverably lost. O my son ! think, 
then, only of those divine sanctuaries where thou wilt 
hear that harmony of the spheres, with which thine 
ears are at this moment charmed. Aspire only to those 
eternal temples prepared for great souls and for those 
sublime geniuses who, during life, exalted themselves 
to the contemplation of celestial things. — Africanus 
ceased to speak and I awoke. 

Having briefly conducted a survey of the classic 
delineation of Heaven, it may be amusing to continue 
the inquiry as far as it relates to the opinions of our 
remote ancestors upon the same interesting subject. 
The mythology of ancient Europe, in this sketch, may 
therefore be ranged under these two grand distinctive 
classes, the Gothic and Celtic faiths, each of which 
was as remarkable as ic was characteristic of its votaries. 

The peculiar genius of the Gothic tribes is to be 
traced in the exploits of the Scandinavian Vikingr, 
whose fame during the middle ages, became a theme 
of distinctionthroughout every corner of Europe. The 
religion of their fathers, which these people still pro- 
fessed, seems to have been wisely adapted, by their 
theofogues, to the martial propensities of a race so rest- 



XVII^ OF ODIN, 167 

less and enterprising. They addressed their adorations 
to Odin, the presider over conflicts and sovereign of 
the celestial regions; they believed in the immortality of 
the soul, and cultivated few other virtues than a fierce 
patriotism and the most intrepid contempt of danger 
and death. To excellence in the discharge of these 
stern duties a future state of congenial rewards was ex- 
hibited, to be enjoyed in an abode the delights of which 
were embellished with every decoration which a rude 
fancy could invent, and a pathetic eloquence recom- 
mend. But into the Mansion of Bliss no soul was per- 
mitted to enter except those of such warriors as had fal- 
len with their faces toward the foe and the sword of 
slaughter in their hands. 

The Heaven of the Northmen was denominated 
Valhalla, the Hall of the Slain. Into this receptacle 
of felicity, were received the souls of the slaughtered in 
the hour of death. There, Odin himself presided. An 
inexhaustible wild boar, which, though boiled every 
morning for dinner,, remained at night entire, supplied 
his table. Ale, the favourite beverage of the North, 
went round in the skulls of those that had been the en- 
emies of his followers and friends. The God himself 
was alone indulged with the juice of the grape ; but he 
partook not of the rest of the feast. Two wolves that 
stood by his side dispatched his share of the fat of ths 
festal boar. The heroes, in the order of their admis- 
sion, sat around a vast table in his presence. They 
drank, with great conviviality and joy, ale of the best 
kind', and the strongest - mead. This luscious, rasad 



168 ON THE VALHALLA N0 . 

was produced by the goat Heidrun, which stood a- 
bove the Valhalla, fed on the leaves of the celebrated 
tree, called Lerader, and from her udder supplied a 
quantity sufficient for all the heroes. In this state of 
daily festivity, the warriors were served by beautiful 
young virgins, named Valkyr, the chosen ones of the 
fallen. 

War and arms, which had been the delight of the 
Scandinavian on earth, continued to be his amusement 
in another world. Battle is the daily pastime, slaugh- 
ter itself the recreation of the blessed. A cock, with 
a crest of gold, crows every morning in the presence 
of the Gods. He awakes the heroes to battle before 
Odin, the father of armies. They rush, armed and 
clothed, to the field, and slay one another with mutual 
wounds. These deaths, however, were only tempor- 
ary. The power of Odin revives the slain. At the 
approach of dinner, they start up reanimated, ride in- 
to the Valhalla, sit down together in the most friendly 
manner, and indulge themselves with copious draughts 
of beer and mead. 

The Valkyrian virgins were the messengers of Odin 
to the heroes whom he invited into his Elysian Hall. 
Without an invitation, it was not permitted even to 
the slain to enter. The heavens were, therefore, di- 
vided in other abodes of joy. In these, subordinate 
intelligences presided and administered bliss to the souls 
of men. Thor * had his peculiar palace : Frea, her 



* Thor, the thunderer, either an inferior divinity of an epithet 
"descriptive of one of the attributes of Odin. From his name our 



XVII. OF ODIN. 169 

mansions of happiness. Into the residence of the for- 
mer, those who were not invited by the fair messen- 
gers of Odin were admitted; and, into the hall of Frea, 
were received that part of the female sex, who descend- 
ed virgins into the grave. 

But these inferior receptacles were only appenda- 
ges of Odin's ethereal Hall. The felicity of daily 
slaughter had raised this into unequaled eminence a- 
mong the fierce spirits of a nation devoted to war and 
blood. It was dignified with many names expressive 
of its beauty, magnificence, and splendour. It was 
called Godheim, the dwelling of gods; Asgard, the 
residence of the Asse, the oriental progenitors of the 
Scandinavian priests ; Wingulf, the palace of friends ; 
Gladsheimur, the place of gladness and the world of 

Though the souls of men were admitted into the 
Valhalla, it was reckoned a place of more dignity than 
the other mansions in heaven which were appropriated 
to the subordinate gods. The Alfheimur, or home 
of spirits, was less brilliant than the Valhalla ; Breid- 
dablic, the splendid quarter of heaven, yielded to it in 
beauty ; and, though the walls and pillars of Glitner, 
the celestial citadel, were of solid gold and its roof of 
silver, it was of inferior magnificence. There, also is 
Himinborg, the heavenly mount, situated upon the 
frontiers of the empyrean, at a place where the Bifros- 



Thursday is derived, as is Friday from Frea, the president of benev- 
olence, hospitality, and peace. 



170 ON THE VALHALLA KO. 

ta, the rainbow or bridge of the gods, touches the verge 
of the sky. 

The Northern Mythology also describes the great 
city of Valascialf, which belongs to Odin and is all 
built of pure silver. There, is the royal throne, called 
Lidscialf, the terror of the nations. When the Uni- 
versal Father * is seated upon it he can view the whole 
earth. But, upon the utmost limit of heaven, toward 
the south, is the most beautiful of all the supernal abodes. 
It is the city Gimle, which is more brilliant and shin- 
ing than the sun itself, and will subsist when the earth 
and the sky have passed away ; and men of approved 
goodness and integrity shall abide there through ever- 
lasting ages. — These are the joys which the ancient 
Scandinavians provided for departed souls in the land 
of future happiness and bliss. 

The operation of such ruthless doctrines on the 
minds of a barbarous people must have been of active 
and unbounded influence. Accordingly, the heroes of 
the North are found triumphing in death, and welcom- 
ing the blow of destruction that is to transmit their 
souls to the mansions of Odin, there to enjoy an everr- 
lasting revelry and to riot in havoc and in blood. In- 
spired by the expectation of soon entering upon such 



* Odin, who is also distinguished by many other appellations, 
chiefly descriptive of his sanguinary nature. Such are, Walfader, fa- 
ther of the slain ; Sigmundur, giver of victory ; Audun, the destroyer ; 
Drepsvarpur, he that lays armies dead ; and Drouza Drotten; the lord 
of graves. See Macpherson's Introduction to the History cf Great 
Britain and Ireland, p 334, et seq ; and Percy's Northern Antiquities 
from the French of Mallet, Vol. II. p. 49— CO. 



XVII. OP ODIN. 171 

a scene, the celebrated Regner Lodbrog * exulted in 
the approach of dissolution and cheered his departing 
spirit in such audacious strains as these. " We fought 
" with swords, that day wherein I saw ten thousand 
" of my foes rolling in the dust near a promontory of 
" England. A dew of blood distilled from our swords. 
" The arrows which flew in search of the helmets, his- 
" sed through the air. The pleasure of that day was 
" equal to that of clasping a fair virgin in my arms. 
« — We fought with swords in the Isles of the South. 
" There Herthife proved victorious : there died many 
" of my valiant warriors. In the shower of arms, 
" Rogvaldur fell, I lost my son. In the play of arms 
" came the deadly spear : his lofty crest was dyed with 
" gore. The birds of prey bewailed his fall : they lost 
" Him that had prepared them banquets. — We fought 
" with swords : I am still full of joy, when I think 
" that a carousal is preparing for me, in the palace of 
" the Gods. Soon, soon in the splendid abode of O- 
" din, we shall drink Beer out of the skulls of our ene- 



* Lodbrog wat a distinguished warrior, poet, and sx-king, or pir- 
ate, who reigned in Scandinavia about A.D. 864. After a long series 
of maritime expeditions against almost all the neighbouring nations, 
he was defeated by Ella, king of the Northumbrian Saxons, taken pris- 
soner, and doomed to perish in a dungeon by the sting of hunger and 
the bite of serpents. While shut up in this den of horror he compos- 
ed his Quida or death song, which has long been venerated for ite 
antiquity, and celebrated for the sublimity of its genius. An excellent 
edition of it was published, in 1782, by the Rev. W. Johnston. It is. 
edited from various MSS. with a free English, and a literal Latin, 
translation, the different readings, a glossary, and notes, forming 
altogether a most curious and instructive work. 

y3 



372 



ON FLATH-INNIS, THE 



" mies. A brave man shrinks not at death. I shall 
" utter no words expressive of fear as I enter the Hall 
?* of Odin. — We fought with our swords in fifty and 
',* one battles under my floating banners. From my 
«f early youth I have learned to dye the steel of my 
" lance with blood ; and thought I never could meet 
" with a king more valiant than myself. But it is 
" time to cease : Odin hath sent his Goddesses to con- 
" duct me to his palace. 1 am going to be placed on 
" the highest seat, there to quaff goblets of Beer with 
" the Immortals. The hours of my life are rolled away. 
" I die laughing." 

The Celtic definition of the land of virtuous souls 
now awaits consideration. By their sages, denominat- 
ed Druids, the Celtae were taught the doctrines of a 
future state and of the immortality of the soul. They 
adored one Omnipotent Being, cherished the most de- 
voted patriotism, and exerted the most exalted intre- 
pidity. At the same time a generous hospitality did 
honour to their character, while a proper discharge of 
that social duty elevated their hopes to an increase of 
felicity in the abodes of the blessed. They little re- 
garded the happiness of this life which was soon to pass 
away, Their desires were directed to those mansions 
of permanent delight into which none but the good and 
valiant could ever enter. This they named Flath-in- 
nis, the Isle of the Noble Ones, a beautiful retreat, 
viewless to mortal eye and far removed amid the stormy 
billows of the western main. There, they partook of 
happiness which never palled, and were enlivened, with 



XVII. PARADISE OP THE CELTS. 173 

joys forever new. The war-man, there, experienced 
a renovated pleasure in quelling the ghosts of his form- 
er foes ; and the hunter bounded in the chase of aerial 
deer. There, the imparadised dwellers reacted the 
scenes of life, unalloyed with their cares and endeared 
to the soul by their security and never-ending duration. 
There, also, the spirits of the departed retained, in 
the midst of their happiness, a warm affection for their 
country and their living friends. They sometimes visit- 
ed the hills of their fathers, and by the sons of their 
people they were transiently seen in the hour of peril. 
« Oscar," sings the bard of Selma, " slowly ascends the 
hill. The meteors of night set on the heath before him. 
A distant torrent faintly roars. Unfrequent blasts rush 
through the aged oaks. The half-enlightened moon 
sinks dim and red behind her hill. Feeble voices are 
heard on the heath. Oscar drew his sword. Trenmor 
came from his hill, at the voice of his mighty son. A 
cloud, like the steed of the stranger, supported his airy 
limbs. His robe is of the mist of Lano, that brings 
death to the people. His sword is a green meteor, half 
extinguished. His face is without form, and dark. 
He sighed thrice over the hero : and thrice the winds 
of the night roared around. Many were his words to 
Oscar. He slowly vanished, like a mist that melts on 
the sunny hill." On the near approach of dissolution 
the shades of the deceased were also seen. It was 
then, that at midnight the death-devoted were sud- 
denly awakened by a strange knocking at their gates : 
it was then, that they heard the indistinct voice of their 



174 Ott PLATH-INNIS, THE NO. 

departed friends calling them away to the Noble Isle. 
A sudden joy, then, rushed upon their minds, and that 
pleasing melancholy which looks forward to happiness 
in a distant land. A fine description of Flath-Innis is 
given in the following simple Celtic tale *. 

Of yore, on his rock of the ocean, lived a Druid of 
high renown. The blast of wind waited for his com- 
mand at the gate ; he rode on the tempest, and the 
troubled wave offered itself as a pillow for his repose. 
His eye followed the sun by day ; his thoughts travel- 
ed from star to star in the season of night ; he thirsted 
after things unseen ; he sighed over the narrow circle 
which surrounded his days ; he often sat in silence he- 
neath the sound of his groves ; and he blamed the 
careless billows that rolled between him and the Green 
Isle of the West. 

One day, as the Druid of Skerr-f- sat thoughtful 
upon his rock, a tempest arose on the ocean : a cloud, 
under whose squally skirts the foaming waters com- 
plained, rushed suddenly into the bay, and from its 
dark womb issued a boat, with its white sails bent to 
the wind, and hung round with a hundred moving oars. 
But it was destitute of mariners, itself seemed to live 
and move. An unusual terror seized the hoary Druid ; 
he heard a voice, though he saw no human form. * A- 

* Macpherson's Introduction to the History of Great Britain and 
Ireland, London Edition, 4to. 1773, p. 238-9-40-11-12. 

f A rock jutting out into the sea ; also written Scor. See Shaw't 
Gaelic Dictionary, in vo. 



XVII. PARADISE OP THE CELTS. 175 

rise !' it said, « behold the boat of the heroes ! arise and 
see the Green Isle of those who have passed away !' 

He felt a strange force on his limbs ; he saw no per- 
son ; but he moved to the boat : the wind immediately- 
changed ; in the bosom of the cloud he sailed away. 
Seven days gleamed faintly round him, seven nights 
added their gloom to his darkness ; his ears were stun- 
ned with shrill voices ; the dull murmur of winds pas- 
sed him on either side ; he slept not, but his eyes were 
not heavy ; he ate not, but he was not hungry. On 
the eighth day the waves swelled into mountains ; the 
boat was tossed violently from side to side : the dark- 
ness thickened around him, when a thousand voices 
at once cried aloud, the Isle ! the Isle ! The billows 
opened wide before him ; the calm land of the departed 
rushed in light on his eyes. It was not a light that 
dazzled, but a pure, distinguishing, and placid light, 
which called forth every object to view in its most per- 
fect form. The Isle spread large before him like a 
pleasing dream of the soul, where distance fades not on 
the sight, where nearness fatigues not the eye. It had 
its gently-sloping hills of green, nor did they wholly 
want their clouds; but the clouds were bright and tran- 
sparent, and each involved in its bosom the source of 
a stream, a beauteous stream, which, wandering down 
the steep, was like the faint notes of the half-touched 
harp to the distant ear. The valleys were open and 
free to the ocean ; trees loaded with leaves, which 
scarcely waved to the light breeze, were scattered on 
the green declivities and rising grounds. The rude 



176 ON FLATII-INNIS, THE NO. 

winds walked not on the mountain ; no storm took its 
course through the sky. All was calm and bright; the 
pure sun of autumn shone from his blue sky on the 
fields; he hastened not to the West for repose, nor 
was he seen to rise from the East : he sits in his mid- 
day height, and looks obliquely on the Noble Isle. 

In each valley is its slow-moving stream : the pure 
waters swell over the banks, yet abstain from the fields: 
the showers disturb them not, nor are they lessened by 
the heat of the sun. On the rising hill are the halls of 
the departed, the high-roofed dwellings of the heroes 
of old There, with the valiant, are the companions 
of their loves, whose beauty is increased with the 
change : they are ruddy lights in the Island of Joy. — 

The employments of the blessed in their Fortunate 
Island, seemed to the sage visitant to differ very little 
from the favourite amusements of the most simple in- 
habitants of a mountainous country. The renovated 
bodies of the departed heroes bloomed with a healthful 
grace, and were active with unfading vigour. A pe- 
culiar elegance adorned the " fair ones of delight, 1 " 
whose beauty was matchless and their loveliness infinite- 
ly superior to that of the daughters of men. Every ob- 
ject in the Noble Isle was surpassing in fairness, gran- 
deur, and delight. 

After a very transient vision of the Isle of the 
Blessed, the Druid of Skerr returned home in the same 
miraculous manner in which he had been carried across 
the ocean. But, though in his own mind he compre- 
hended his absence in sixteen days, he found every 



XVIII. PARADISE OP THE CELTS. 177 

thing changed at his return. No trace of his habita- 
tion remained. He knew not the face of any man. 
He was even forced to make inquiry concerning him- 
self; and tradition had scarcely carried down his name 
to the generation that then possessed the Island of 
Skerr. Two complete centuries had passed away since 
his departure ; so imperceptible had been the flight of 
time in the felicity of the paradisial Isle. Y. 



No. XVIII. 

" Stretch' d in her cell with pallid cheek the Queen, 
And tears fast dropping from her beamless eyes, 
Wore the long months of grief — The cold excuse, 
The taunt, the studied silence of neglect, 
Silence than cold evasion and than taunt 
More keen, she bore : yet dreams of brighter hours 
Still cherished ; and still hoped, and hoped anew, 
To burst the chains which envious hate had twined ; 
Till Freedom on the sable scaffold's height 
Stood hand in hand with all-subduing Death 

To end her bondage." 

Gisborne's Walks in a Forest, No. IV. v. 375 — S91 — 99. 

LETTERS are mirrors of the mind. Describing 
the thoughts, feelings, and actions of the writer, they 
cause him to pass, as it were, in review before the 
reader's judgment. Epistolary productions have, there- 



178 LETTER OP No. 

fore, always been acceptable to people of taste, and to 
those whose aim is, to develope the characters of things 
and of men. Collections of this kind, from the corres- 
pondence of the ancients, have long been the admiration 
and delight of the lovers of elegant and instructive read- 
ing. These, too, have been emulated, in generous 
rivalry, by modern pens, of whom many have met with 
approbation, and some with applause. The following 
epistle, which exhibits, in strong colours, the traits of 
a lofty mind, is worthy of consideration from the elo- 
quence and dignity of its composition; but, from the cir- 
cumstances of the writer and the sublimity of sentiment 
which it breathes, is most pathetically interesting and 
grand. 

It is a letter of Mary, Queen of Scots, to Queen 
Elizabeth, which, says a candid and elegant writer *, 
" no person can read without some degree of astonish- 
" ment. It is difficult to say, whether in it the pa- 
" thetic or the grand shine most. To it, the admirers 
" of Queen Mary may refer, as a ground of their pane- 
" gyrics ; whether there is to be considered — The 
" great mind which it displays — The solemnity which 
" reigns throughout — The piety which it expresses — 
" The chain of argument which is maintained — The 



* Dr Thomas Robertson of Dalmeny. — See his History of Mary 
Queen of Scots, 4to. Edinburgh, 1793, p. 140. The letter is translat- 
ed in his appendix, p. 1 33 ; and the French original is to be found 
in a valuable collection intituled, De Vita et Rebus Gestis Serenissimas 
Principis Maria Scotorum Reginas, Franciaj Dotaria?, ad optima fidei 
codices resensuit S. Jebb, Londini, folio, 2 Tom. i. 1725. T. II. p. 266. 
It is dated, November 28, 1582. 



MARY, QUEEN OP SCOTS. 179 



C 



" eloquence with which it glows — Or, the bold and 
"just reproach with which it fearlessly brands the 
" English Queen. — It may also be remarked ; that this 
" letter, written upon the prospect of approaching death, 
«? gives us a high idea of her resignation and goodness 
" of heart, as well as of her magnanimity and courage. 
" — The latter scenes of Mary's life were, indeed, the 
Ci greatest ; and notwithstanding so long a tract of cap- 
" tivity and indignities, although she was, at times, 
" deeply affected, so far from being subdued, compos- 
« ure and majesty of mind grew upon her, as she drew 
(C nearer to the end of her sufferings, and in proportion 
■" to the number of them." — 

The letter, commencing with a reference to the in- 
trigues which then agitated Scotland, and endangered 
the person and government of the young prince, James 
VI. proceeds thus ; 

Madam, 

Upon what has come to my knowledge 
concerning the late conspiracies accomplished in Scot- 
land against my poor child, having every occasion to 
dread the result of them, from the example of myself, 
it is necessary that I employ what little of life and 
strength remains to me before my death, to disburden 
fully to you, my heart, of my just and lamentable com- 
plaints, of which I desire that this letter may serve 
you, as long as you shall live after me, as a perpetual 
testimony and engraving upon your conscience, as well 



180 LETTER OF XQ. 

as my acquittal with posterity, as for the shame and 
confusion of all those, who, with your approbation, have 
so cruelly and unworthily treated me hitherto, and 
brought me to the extremity wherein I am. But where- 
as their designs, practices, actions, and proceedings, 
however detestable they may have been, have always pre- 
vailed with you against my most just remonstrances 
and sincere conduct ; and, as the force which you pos- 
sess has always stood instead of reason with the public, 
1 will have recourse to the living God, our sole judge, 
who has established us, equally and immediately under 
him, in the government of his people ; I will invoke him 
in the extremity of this my most urgent affliction to re- 
quite to you and to me (as He will do at His last judg- 
ment) the reward of our merits and demerits, one to- 
wards another. And remember, Madam, that from Him 
we shall not be able to disguise any thing by the gloss 
and cunning of the world, although now my enemies, 
under you, may for a time cover from mankind and per- 
haps from 3>"QU, their guileful inventions. In His name, 
and as if before Him sitting between you and me, I will 
remind you, that by agents, spies, and secret messen- 
gers sent under your name to Scotland while I was 
there, my subjects have been corrupted and excited to 
rebel against me, to attempt against my person, and 
in one word, to speak, do, enterprise, and execute 
whatever during my troubles has happened in that 
country : of which I will not specify at present any other 
proof, than that which I shall infer from the confes- 
sion of one who has since been of those most advance*! 



XVIII. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 1S1 

for this good service, and of the witnesses confronted 
with him. 

To him *, if I had afterwards done justice, he would 
not have since renewed, by means of his old correspon- 
dences, the same practices against my son, and would 
not have furnished, to all my traitors and rebellious 
subjects who have taken refuge with you, the aid and 
support which they have had, even since my detention 
here; without which support, I consider that these 
traitors would not since have prevailed, nor would have 
so long subsisted, as they have done. During my im- 
prisonment in Lochleven, the late Throkmorton ad- 
vised me, on your part, to sign the demission which he 
let me know was to be presented to me, assuring me 
that it could not be valid. And since that time, there 
has not been a place in Christendom where it has been 
held as such, and maintained, except here, even to the 
assisting of the authors of it, by open force. In your 
conscience, Madam, would you approve the like lib- 
erty and power in your subjects ? This (power J not- 
withstanding my authority, has been, by my subjects 
conferred upon my son when he was not capable of ex- 
ercising it. And after I have been disposed legally to con* 
firm him in it, being of age to be aided to act for his own 
interest, it was suddenly wrested from him and given to 
two or three traitors who, in already having deprived 
him of the effect of it, will take away from him as 
from me, both the name and title of it, if he contra- 



* Camden thinks the person here allnded to, was the Earl 
Morton. 



182 LETTER OK NO. 

diet them in any sort, and perhaps his life, if God do 
not provide for his preservation. When I had escap- 
ed from Lochleven, ready to give battle to my rebels, 
I sent you by a gentleman-courier, a diamond ring, 
which formerly I received from you as a token, and 
with assurance of being succoured by you against my 
rebels, and also, that upon retreating to you, you 
would come even to the frontier to assist me, as by 
different messengers was confirmed to me. This pro- 
mise coming, and repeatedly from your mouth (though 
by your ministers I had found myself often abused) 
made me place such confidence in the effect of it, that 
the rout of my army following after, I came straight 
to throw myself into your arms, if I could have reach- 
ed them. But while deliberating to go in quest of 
you, Lo ! I was in the middle of my journey arrest- 
ed, surrounded with guards, shut up in strong places, 
and at last reduced, all shame being banished, to that 
captivity wherein I this day die, after the thousand 
deaths which I have already suffered. I know that 
you will alledge against me what passed between me 
and the late Duke of Norfolk. I maintain that there 
was nothing in it to your prejudice, nor against the 
public good of this realm, and that the treaty was ap- 
proved, by the advice and seals of the greatest who 
were then of your Council, with the assurance of 
procuring your approbation of it. How could such 
personages have undertaken to make you consent to 
that which should deprive you of your life, honour, 
and crown, as you- declare you were persuaded ofj 



XVIII. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 183 

to all the Ambassadors and others who speak to you 
concerning me ? Meanwhile my rebels perceiving that 
their precipitate course had carried them much farth- 
er than they had proposed ; and the reality of those 
falsehoods spread against me, having appeared at the 
conference to which I submitted in full assembly of 
your deputies and mine, with those of the opposite party 
in the country, in order publicly to clear myself; Be- 
hold ! the chief of them, on account of their having 
come to repentance, besieged by your forces in the cas- 
tie of Edinburgh, and one of the chief of them (Lething- 
ton * J poisoned, and the other f Kirkaldy J most cruelly 
hanged, after I had made them twice lay down their 
arms at your request, in hope of an accommodation, 
which God knows if my enemies intended. I was willing 
for a long time, to try if patience could alleviate the 
rigour and bad treatment, which they have begun, es- 
pecially for these ten years, to make me suffer; and, ac- 
commodating myself exactly to the order prescribed to 
me for my captivity in this house, as well with re- 
gard to the number and quality of the servants I retain- 
ed, having dismissed others, as for my diet and ordin- 
ary exercise on account of my health, I have lived till 
the present time as quietly and peaceably, as one 
inferior to me, and more obliged, than I from this 
treatment am to you, could have done, even to the 



* When Kirkaldy and his brother had been hanged at the cross c f 
Edinburgh, Lethington, to avoid the ignominy of a public execution, 
ended his days after the old Roman fashion. Melville's Memoirs, Edin- 
burgh Edition, 8vo. 3 7:"5, p. 243, 



184 LETTER OP NO. 

depriving myself (to remove all shadow of suspicion 
and distrust from you), of a request to have some 
correspondence with my son and my country, which by 
no right nor reason could be denied me ; and chiefly 
with my son, whom, in place of this, every means has 
been used to set him against me, on purpose to weak- 
en us by our division. It was allowed me, you will 
say, three years since, to send to visit him. His cap- 
tivity then at Stirling under the tyranny of Morton, 
was the cause, as his liberty since has been, of a refus- 
al of such a visit. All this last year, I have often pro- 
posed different overtures for the establishment of a good 
friendship between us, and a sure agreement between 
these two kingdoms for the time to come. 

It is about ten years since Commissioners were sent 
to me at Chatsworth for that purpose. The Ambassa- 
dors of France, and mine, treated with you yourself upon 
it. I myself, last winter, made every advantageous pro- 
posal to Beale * that was possible. What have I got by 
it? My good intention despised, the sincerity of my be- 
haviourneglectedandcalumniated, the state of my affairs 
perplexed by delays, adjournments, and such other ar- 
tifices. And the conclusion has been worse and more 
unworthy treatment from one day to another, whatev- 
er I have forced myself to do to deserve the contrary ; 
my too long and pernicious patience, having led me to 
this point, that my enemies through the habit of doing 



* The original reads Reale, which seems to be a mistake for Beale, 
who was a clerk to Queen Elizabeth's privy council. 



XVIII. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 185 

me ill, think that they now have a right of prescription 
to treat me, not as a prisoner which I cannot reasonably 
be, but as some slave whose life and death depend on 
their sole tyranny. I cannot, Madam, longer endure it, 
and I must in dying discover the authors of my 
death ; or if I live, I must attempt under your protec- 
tion, to put an end to the cruelties, calumnies, and 
traiterous designs of these my enemies, on purpose to 
attain a little more tranquillity during what remains 
of my life. To remove the pretended occasions of all 
differences between us, acquaint yourself, if you please, 
of the truth of all that has been reported to you concern- 
ing my behaviour: revise the depositions of the strangers 
taken in Ireland ; let those of the Jesuits last executed 
be represented to you : give liberty to those who shall 
undertake to accuse me publicly, and permit me to en- 
ter upon my defence: if any evil be found in me, let me 
suffer it, which I will do patiently when I know the 
reason for it; if any good, do not allow me to be longer 
mal-treated, with your supreme commission before God 
and man. The vilest criminals that are in your prisons, 
born in your dominions, are admitted to their justifica- 
tion, and there is always declared to them, their accusers 
and their accusations. Why then shall not the same rule 
take place with respect to me, a sovereign queen, your 
nearest relation, and lawful heiress ? I conceive that this 
last circumstance has hitherto been the principal cause 
of it, on the part of my enemies, and of all their cal- 
umnies, for the purpose, by keeping us divided, of in- 
sinuating between the two, their unjust pretences, 



18t> LETTER OF NO. 

But, alas ! they have now little reason and less need to 
torment me more on this account. For I protest to you 
upon my honour, that this day, I wait for no other 
kingdom than that of my God, whom I see prepar- 
ing me for the best termination of all my afflictions 
and adversities past. It will be for you, to acquit 
your conscience towards my child, as to what shall be- 
long to him after my death by this affair ; and mean- 
while not to countenance, to his prejudice, the contin- 
ual practices and secret conspiracies which our enemies 
in this kingdom, carry on daily for the advancement 01" 
their pretensions ; labouring, on the other hand, with 
my traiterous subjects in Scotland, by all the means 
they can, to hasten his ruin ; of which I ask no better 
proof than the charges given to your last deputies sent 
into Scotland, and what these deputies seditiously prac- 
tised there, as I believe, without your knowledge, but 
with the good and sufficient solicitation of the Earl (of 
Huntington) my good cousin, at York. 

And on this point, Madam, by what right can it 
be maintained, that I, as mother of my child, should 
be totally interdicted, not only from relieving him in 
the necessity so urgent in which he is, but even from 
having any knowledge of his affairs ? Who can shew 
more care, duty and sincerity than I? Who can be more 
interested ? At least, if sending to him to provide for 
his safety, as the Earl of Shrewsbury lately made me 
understand on your part, you had been pleased in this, 
to receive my advice, you would have intermeddled 
with better reason, I think, and with more complais- 



XVIII. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 187 

ance towards me. But consider what you leave me 
to think, when forgetting so suddenly the offences 
which you pretended against my son, when I request- 
ed you that we should together send to him, you have 
dispatched a message while he was a prisoner, not only 
without advising me of it, but depriving me, at the same 
time, of aliliberty, on purpose that by every mean, I should 
have no news of it. If the intention of those, who have 
procured, on your part, so hasty a visit to my son, have 
been for his preservation and the quiet of the country, 
they ought not to have so carefully concealed it from me, 
as a thing in which I was unwilling to concur with you : 
they have thus made you lose the regard which I 
would have had for you ; and, to speak more freely to 
you, I beg of you no more to employ such means nor 
such persons. For, although I reckon the Lord de 
Kerry (Ca?y, Lwd Himsdon) to be too sensible of the 
family from which he is sprung, to engage in any vil- 
lainous act, he has had for an assistant a sworn partis- 
an of the Earl of Huntington, by the ill offices of whom, 
an action as bad has been accomplished with a similar 
effect. I shall be satisfied then, with your only permit- 
ting that, from this country, my son receive no injury, 
which is all I ever required of you before, even when 
an army was sent to the borders to prevent justice being 
done upon the execrable Morton; and that none of your 
servants, directly or indirectly, intermeddle any more 
with the affairs of Scotland, unless it be with my know- 
ledge, to whom all cognisance of them pertains, or with 
the assistance of some one on the part of the most Chris* 

2 a 2 



188 



LETTER OP 



tian King, my good brother, whom, as our principal 
ally, I wish to be made acquainted with every thing in 
this matter, on account of the little credit he can have 
with the traitors, who detain my son at present. In 
the mean time, I declare to you very freely that I hold 
this last conspiracy and innovation (the restriction of 
James VI J to be pure treason against the life of my 
son, the good of his affairs, and that of the country ; 
and so long as he shall be in the state wherein I under- 
stand he is, I will not esteem word, writing, or act 
that may come from him or which passes under his 
name, as proceeding from his free and unrestrained dis- 
position, but solely from these conspirators, who, at the 
price of his life, make use of him as a mask. Now, 
Madam, with all this liberty of speaking, which I 
foresee may in some respects displease you although 
it be the truth itself, you will find it I assure my- 
self, more strange, that I come now to importune you 
farther with a request of much greater importance, 
and nevertheless very easy for you to grant to me and 
to perform. This is, not having been able hitherto, in 
accommodating myself patiently so long to the rigour- 
ous treatment of this captivity, and behaving myself 
sincerely in all things, yea even to the least which affect 
you very little, to obtain any assurance of your good 
grace, or to give you some, of my entire affection to 
you ; every hope being by it taken away, of better 
(treatment), in the little time that remains to me to 
live, I supplicate you, in honour of the grievous pas- 
sion of our Saviour and Redeemer Jesus Christ, I sun- 






XVIII. MARY, QUEEN OP SCOTS. 189 

plicate you once more to permit me to retire out of this 
kingdom to some place of repose, to seek some comfort 
to my poor body so exhausted with continual sorrows, 
and, with liberty to my conscience, to prepare my soul 
for God, who daily calls for it. Believe, Madam, and 
the physicians whom you sent me this last summer are 
sufficiently able to judge of it, that I cannot so long 
exist as to be a foundation of jealousy or distrust on 
my part. And, notwithstanding this, take of me such 
assurances and conditions, just and reasonable, as you 
shall choose. The greatest power rests always, on your 
side, to make me keep them, though, for any thing 
whatever, I would not wish to break them. You have 
had sufficient experience of the observation of my sim- 
ple promises, and sometimes to my own prejudice, as 
I shewed to you upon this same subject, within these 
two years. Recollect, if you please, what I then wrote 
you, and that you could not so much bind my heart 
to you as by gentleness ; although you confine for ever 
my poor languishing body within four walls, those of 
my rank and natural disposition are neither to be gain- 
ed, nor to be forced by any rigour. Your prison, with- 
out any right or just foundation, has already destroyed 
my body, of which you will soon have the end, if it 
continue but a little longer there ; and my enemies will 
not have much time to glut their cruelties upon me. 
There remains only to me, the soul ; which all your 
power cannot enslave. Allow it, then, a little more free- 
ly to aspire after its salvation, as being the only thing 
it now seeks for, more than all the grandeur of the world. 



190 LETTER OF NO. 

It appears to me; that it cannot be to you any 
great satisfaction, honour, or advantage that my ene- 
mies tread my life under foot, till they have stifled me 
in your presence ; whereas, if in this extremity, how- 
ever late it be, you deliver me from their hands, you 
will bind me greatly to you, and all those who belong 
to me, especially my poor child, whom by that you 
will be able perhaps to make sure to yourself. I shall 
never cease to importune you with this request until it be 
granted to me. And, regarding this, I pray you let 
me be acquainted with your intention ; having, to please 
you, delayed till now, during two years, to renew the 
solicitation of it, for which the miserable state of my 
health presses me more than you can imagine. In the 
mean time provide, if you please, for the improvement 
of my treatment here, that I may not suffer any longer, 
and remit me not to the discretion of any other but 
your own self, from whom alone (as I wrote you late- 
ly), I wish in future to hold all the good and the evil, 
which I shall receive in your country. Do me this 
favour, that I have your intention in writing, or the 
Ambassador of France for me. For, to confine me to 
what the Earl of Shrewsbury, or others, shall write 
concerning it on your part, I have too much experience, 
to be able to place any assurance in it ; the least point 
which they shall fancy being sufficient to innovate the 
whole from day to day. Besides this, the last time 
that I wrote to those of your council, you gave me to 
understand that I ought not to address myself to them, 
but to you alone : and thus to extend their credit and 



XVIir. MARY, QUEEN OP SCOTS. 191 

authority only to do me injury, could not be reasonable, 
as has happened in the last restriction, by which, con- 
trary to your intention, I have been most unworthily 
treated. This gives me every reason to doubt that 
some of my enemies in your council may have pur- 
posely procured it, so as others of the said council may 
neither be made acquainted with my just complaints, 
nor to perceive, perhaps, their companions adhering to 
their wicked attempts upon my life, whereof, if they 
should have any knowledge, they would oppose them for 
the sake of your honour and of their duty towards you. 
Two things, in fine, I have principally to require, 
the one, that near as I am to depart out of this 
world, I may have with me for my consolation some 
respectable person of the Church, to remind me daily 
of the journey I have to finish, and to instruct me to 
perform it according to my religion, in which I am 
firmly resolved to live and to die. This is a lastduty which 
cannot be denied to the most wicked and miserable that 
lives. It is a liberty which you give to all the foreign 
Ambassadors, as in like manner, all Catholic kings allow 
yours the exercise of their religion. And I myself, have 
never compelled my own subjects to any thing contrary 
to their religion, although I had all power and author- 
ity over them ; and, that I should, in this extremity, be 
deprived of such liberty, you cannot justly require. What 
advantage will accrue to you when you shall deny it to 
me ? I hope that God will pardon me, if, by you op- 
pressed in this manner, I cease to perform my duty but 
only as I shall be permitted to do it in my heart. But 



192 LETTER OF NO. 

you will afford a very bad example to the other princes 
of Christendom to employ, towards their subjects, the 
same rigour that you shall exercise towards me, a sov- 
ereign Queen and your nearest relation, which I am, 
and will be as long as I shall live, in spite of my ene- 
mies. I will not importune you now about an augmen- 
tation of my household, for which, during the time that 
I see remaining to me to live in the world, I shall not 
have much need. I require of you, then, only two bed- 
chamber women, to assist me during my illness, affirm- 
ing to you, before God, that they are most necessary 
to me, when I shall be a poor creature among simple 
people. Grant these to me, for the honour of God, 
and prove by it that my enemies have not so much 
credit with you against me, as to exercise their vengeance 
and cruelty in a matter of so little consequence, and de- 
pending upon a simple office of humanity. 

I will come now to that, of which the Earl of 
Shrewsbury has charged me (if such a one as he can 
charge me) ; it is this, that contrary to my promise 
made to Beale, and without your knowledge, I had ne- 
gociated with my son, to resign to him my title to the 
crown of Scotland, having bound myself not to proceed 
in it, but with your advice, by one of my servants, who 
in their common journey would be directed by one of 
yours. These are, I think, the very words of the 
said Earl. I will tell you upon this, Madam, that 
Beale has never had any simple and absolute promise 
from me ; but indeed conditional overtures, to which 
I could not in any manner whatever remain bound, w r ith- 



UVIH. MARY, QUEEN OP SCOTS. . 103 

out, previously, the conditions I had affixed to them 
were executed; about which, so far is he from having ful- 
filled them, that on the contrary I have never had from 
him any answer, nor on his part heard mention made 
since. And on this account, I remember very well 
that the Earl of Shrewsbury, about last Easter, wish- 
ing to draw from me a new confirmation of what I had 
spoken to the said Beale, I replied to him very fully, 
that it was only in case the said conditions should be 
granted to me, and consequently performed. Both of 
them are yet alive to demonstrate it to you, if they be 
willing to speak the truth. Then, seeing that no ans- 
wer was made to me ; but, on the contrary, by delays 
and evasions, my enemies continued more licentiously 
than ever their practices, arranged since the residence 
of the said Beale with me, to traverse my just inten- 
tions in Scotland, so that the effects of them have been 
well witnessed there ; and that, by this mean, the door 
remained open to the ruin of my son and of myself; 
I took your silence for a refusal, and released myself, 
by letters express as well to yourself as to your council, 
from all that I had negociated with the said Beale. I 
made you well acquainted with what Monsieur the 
King, and Madame the Queen, had written to me with 
their own hands concerning this affair, and upon it 
asked your advice, which is yet to come, with which my 
intention in truth was to proceed, if you had in time 
given it to me, and had permitted me to send to my 
son, assisting me in the overtures I had made to you, 
towards establishing between these two kingdoms a 

VOL. I. 2 B 



19& LETTER OF NO. 

proper amity and perfect understanding for the time to 
come. But to engage myself implicitly to follow your 
advice, before I knew what it would be, and during 
the journey of our servants, to subject mine to the direc- 
tion of yours, even in my own country, I was never 
so simple as to think of it. Now, I refer to your con- 
sideration, if you have known the false game which my 
enemies here, have played me in Scotland, in order to 
bring matters to the extremity in which they are *, 
which of us has proceeded in it with the greatest sin- 
cerity. God be judge between them and me, and a- 
vert from this island the punishment of their demerits. 
Send back again at once the intelligence, which my 
traitorous subjects of Scotland may have given you : 
you will find, and I will maintain it before all Chris- 
tian princes, that there has not passed on my part any 
thing to your prejudice, nor against the weal and re- 
pose of this kingdom which I regard not less than any 
Counselor or subject that you have, taking more inter- 
est in it than any of them. There was a discus- 
sion concerning the gratifying my son with the title 
and name of King, and preserving as well the said title 
to him as to the rebels all impunity for their past of- 
fences, and to replace every thing in peace and tran- 
quillity for the future, without any innovation in af- 
fairs whatever. Was this to take away the crown 
from my son ? My enemies, as I believe, did not wish 
that it should be secured to him; and, on that account, 



* Mary, in this, as in former passages alludes to the attempt of 
"the Earl of Gowry upon the person of James VI. at Perth, in 1582 



XVIII. MARY, QUEEN Op SCOTS. 19A 

are very willing that he retain it by the lawless violence 
of some, from all antiquity, perfidious enemies to the 
whole of our family. Was this, then, to seek justice 
of the past offences of these traitors, which my clemen- 
cy has always surpassed ? But an evil conscience can 
never be secure, carrying continually its terror in its 
greatest perplexity along with it. Was it to wish to 
disturb the repose of the country, to forward it by a 
clement remission of every thing past, and a general 
reconciliation between all our subjects ? This is what 
our enemies here dread as much as they make a shew 
of desiring it. What injury in this was there done you ? 
Mark then, and verify it, if you please, in any other 
thing ; I will reply to it, upon my honour. Ah ! will 
you, Madam, allow yourself to be so blind to the ar- 
tifices of my enemies, as to establish after you? and 
peradventure against yourself, their unjust pretensions 
to this crown ; will you suffer them, yourself living, 
and see them ruin and so cruelly cause to perish those 
who concern you so near, both in affection and blood ? 
What profit and honour can you expect by permitting 
them to retain us, my son and myself, so long separa- 
ted, and him and me from you ? Resume the ancient 
pledges of your good natural disposition ; attach your 
relations to yourself; grant me the happiness before I 
die, that, seeing every thing well adjusted between us, 
my soul, set free from this body, may not be compelled 
to pour out its lamentations before God, for the wrong 
which you have suffered to be done to me, here below: 
but rather, that being fortunately united to you, it may 



196' LETTER OF NO. 

quit this captivity to begin its journey towards him, 
whom I pray to direct you aright upon my very just 
and more than reasonable complaints and sorrows. 

From Sheffield, this 28th of November, 1582. 
Your very disconsolate nearest relation, 

and affectionate cousin 

Mary Queen. 

This letter, so nervous and pathetic, is frequently 
rendered obscure, by that which is incident to all letters, 
the rapid glancing of the mind to and from circumstan- 
ces, familiar both to the writer and the receiver, and 
therefore noticed only in a cursory manner. By many 
of the writers of Mary^ life it has been introduced in- 
to the narrative accompanied with observations descrip- 
tive of the melancholy eloquence and sublime energy 
with which it abounds. Blackwood first published the 
original, in 1587; Cambden has abridged it in his An- 
nals, Vol. I. p. 353; Mademoiselle De Keralio gare it a 
place in her Appendix, Vol. V. p. 340; it is in Stuarfs 
History, Vol. II. p. 164, and Whitaker has inserted 
it with a translation in the end of Vol. III. of his De- 
fence of Mary, where he thus very forcibly expresses 
himself. " I now take leave of my reader with a gen- 
" uine letter of Mary ; which recapitulates the conduct 
" of Elizabeth to her, in all its principal outlines; which 
li shows Elizabeth to us, as we have seen her before, 
" but with an addition of evidence, mean, tyrannical, 
" insidious, and savage ; and also shows the soul of 
" Mary to us, at the seeming approaches of death, re- 



XVUI. MARY, QUSEN OF SCOTS. 197 

" collected in its sentiments, earnest in i^s feelings, 
" maintaining her innocence with awful solemnity, and 
*' appealing to that God, before whom she thought she 
" was going to appear, for the vindication of her hon- 
" our and the avenging of her wrongs. From the in- 
" teresting nature of distress, the elevating force of in- 
" nocence, and the ennobling dignity of religion, the 
" sick and dying Mary here appears with a majesty, 
" before which the low-souled Elizabeth shrinks abash- 
" ed and confounded. Every honest and generous feel- 
" ing of our hearts comes forward to the aid of the 
ts oppressed Queen. And we think of her oppressor, 
" with disgust, with disdain, and with detestation.'" — 
Such are the terms wherein an eminent English clergy- 
man speaks of the most popular of the sovereigns of 
England. E. 



No. XIX. 

" Hcec stiulia adolescent iam alunt, senectutem ohlecianl, se~ 
cundas 7'es omant, adversis jyerfiigium ac solatium pi'cebent." 
Cicero pro Aichia Poeta. 

ALMOST no time is more pleasantly and usefully 
passed than that, which is dedicated to the acquisition 
of knowledge. The mind, being ardently engaged, and 
directed to this object, partakes of the pleasure, which 
naturally arises from the full and undivided exertion 



198 ON THE ADVANTAGES NO. 

of its faculties. That listless inactivity, pernicious 
alike to improvement and to happiness, is never more 
effectually, and I may add successfully, combated, 
than when the attention is fixed and absorbed, in 
some literary disquisition. The little uneasinesses 
that disquiet and harrass us, are forgotten amid those 
delightful prospects which lie in the Republic of Let- 
ters : and if, at any time, an overwhelming affliction un- 
hinge our peace, even to this, desperate as it may be, 
literature either brings a sovereign remedy, or teaches 
us how to bear it. While the understanding is engross- 
ed, the passions have not room to play. The attention 
being exclusively turned to intellectual views, cannot 
at once and without an effort, be drawn to those petty 
anxieties which always invade the vacant mind, and 
which fret and teaze only by occupying our thoughts. 
Habits of reading and study are thus highly conducive 
to that inward quiet, which forms the chief part of hu- 
man happiness, and without which all other enjoyments 
drawn from whatever source, will fail to yield lasting 
and solid satisfaction. 

Although literature were accompanied with no 
other benefit, enough has been said to recommend it ; 
but when to this, important as it must be confessed 
to be, is added all that mental improvement, which is 
its natural and genuine fruit, it is somewhat strange 
that the bulk of mankind are not more eagerly and of- 
tener engaged in its attainment. Need I particularize 
all its advantages ; the capacity it gives to the under- 
standing — the strength to the memory — the fire and 



XIX. OF LITERATURE. 199 

activity it communicates to the fancy — the vastness to 
the comprehension — the hints and inventions it furnish- 
es to genius ? Or shall I unlock its storehouses and 
ostentatiously display the magnificence and variety of 
its treasure ? Shall I spread before the eye that im- 
mense field where the imagination can ramble without 
end, and cull those rare and beautiful flowers which 
she afterwards assorts and compounds into an infinite 
diversity of forms ? 

Such to the enlightened few would be a needless 
and unprofitable waste of description ; for they have 
already appreciated the value of these advantages : and 
to the many, on whose minds science has never beamed, 
there are arguments of a coarser and more tangible 
shape, better fitted to carry conviction, and more level 
to their capacities. I shall rapidly sketch three of these, 
and then detect and expose an error, connected with 
this subject, which is fast gaining ground in this com- 
mercial country, and particularly in this quarter. 

First then, literature supplies an inexhaustible store 
of topics for general conversation. 

This may seem of trivial moment, considering the 
great number of Newspapers, which issue from almost 
every press, and are dispersed throughout the kingdom*; 
and which may be supposed to place within the reach 
of all ranks of men, abundant matter for discourse. 
And as the intelligence contained in them, is both va- 
ried and interesting, embracing at once whatever is 
connected with our foreign relations, as well those ar- 
ising from our colonies., as from other nations ; and aL 



200 0N THE ADVANTAGES NO. 

so all our domestic policy, the contentions of our polit- 
ical factions, the specimens of parliamentary eloquence, 
and those numberless incidents, which occur within the 
Empire ; it may be pretended, that nothing but an in- 
satiable and unnatural thirst for knowledge, could lead 
men to quit sources of information so salutary and co- 
pious, and set out in quest of others, that can have lit- 
tle to recommend them, besides their novelty. Although 
it be granted that the daily prints abound with miscel- 
laneous news well calculated for helps to conversation, 
and so important as to be worth general attention, still 
it must be owned, that when the parties are not heated 
with political strife and animosity, they furnish only 
meagre and exhausted topics, and can but seldom long 
detain or amuse the sensible part of mankind. Every 
event whether foreign or domestic, is detailed with 
such minuteness, its causes pointed out, and its conse- 
quences traced, that little else remains for conversation 
than to put each other in mind of the circumstances. 
All are possessed of exactly the same information, and 
there can be but little pleasure and still less interest in 
hearing others describe what we already know. The 
philosophic and well-cultivated mind, hastens from 
thence to expatiate in the fields of science, where it in- 
hales a purer atmosphere, and meets with objects more 
congenial to its taste. 

But though the politics of the country may suffice 
to furnish the male part of the species with topics of 
discourse, the other half must be at some loss to hold 

either with the men Cfcf 



OF LITERATURE 



.201 



with each other, since the authority of custom, founded 
no doubt on the general opinion that delicacy and gentle- 
ness form the first and most graceful ornaments of their 
sex, has rigorously interdicted them from all political 
discussion. That strife which is stirred up in this free 
country by the liberty of speech indulged on all the 
measures of Government, and the violence with which 
the parties regard each other, spoil that placid regular- 
ity of features, and that winning softness of expression, 
which render beautiful women truly beautiful. To 
them, literature holds out its tempting fruits. On the 
tree of knowledge grow no apples endowed with poison- 
ous qualities to cloud the understanding, and introduce 
misery and disorder into the world, but such as are a- 
dapted to console, to enlighten, and to exhilarate. 
Were a taste for reading more generally diffused among 
females, they would reap from it incalculable benefits 
to themselves, and take a firmer and more rational hold 
of the affections of the other sex. A face, though 
brightened with pretty smiles, and formed with the ut- 
most regularity, soon palls upon the sense, unless it be 
lighted up with that intelligence which books alone can 
inspire, and with that expressive animation which can 
only be excited and upheld by an instructive and enter- 
taining conversation. It is a pity to see the fairest part of 
the creation, whom Providence obviously designed to 
be our rational companions, aiming almost exclusively 
at outward attractions, and pleasing by a display of 
dazzling colours, like the gaudy, but worthless insects, 
that sport in the sun-beam. The mind is capable of 
vol. i. 2 c 



202 ON THE ADVANTAGES NO. 

receiving a richer and more pleasing variety of orna- 
ments than the body ; and the accomplishments of a 
sound judgment and ready wit, are far more fascina- 
ting than the gewgaws of the milliner, however well 
adapted to the complexion and the features. , 

In the next place, I observe, that literature affords 
numberless maxims, and exhibits striking examples, 
for our right conduct in life. 

Our duty, it is said, is so well known and easily 
understood, that our faults proceed in no instance from 
ignorance, but either from culpable thoughtlessness, or 
wilful intention. If we have a mind to correct our er- 
rors, the remedy is within our power: we need not 
have recourse to systems of ethics for rules, nor to the 
records of history for examples ; we have only to mas- 
ter our passions, restrain our appetites, and boldy seize 
the path which leads to virtue. And are books not use- 
ful, I had almost said, indispensably necessary, for those 
very ends ? They paint the consequences of false in- 
dulgence, and of the irregular exercise of the passions, 
in so lively a manner as to admonish us of our danger, 
and dispose us to sober and deliberate reflection. Even 
that very calm of mind which is produced by reading 
and meditation, is highly favourable to virtue, by stil- 
ling all the rougher and more boisterous emotions. 
Not to mention that there is scarce any production, 
either in ancient or modern times, in a foreign or in 
our own language, where human conduct and manners 
are treated of, which does not lean to the side of mor- 
ality, and furnish arguments to convince, as well as 



SIX. OF LITERATURE. 203 

motives to persuade us, to the practice of it. Such 
impressions, frequently repeated, must in the end mo- 
derate the impetuosity and turbulence of the passions, 
and induce that sedate and self-commanding temper, 
which is the groundwork of whatever is noble, gener- 
ous, and praise- worthy. In short, though a man's con- 
duct, from the influence of education, or the greater 
ascendancy of conscience, may in general be regular 
and but little liable to reproach ; yet, unless his heart 
be well seasoned with the maxims of wisdom, and his 
views enlarged to take in the remote consequences of 
things, his conduct must be wavering and unstable, and 
his resolution will often yield at the approach of temp- 
tation. 

This reasoning may serve to explain why it hap- 
pens, that the moral worth of the middling exceeds 
that, both of the higher and lower classes of society. 
The great and the opulent are engaged in such a con- 
tinued round of pleasure, are encompassed with so 
many dependents and flatterers, and have in such pro- 
fusion wherewithal to pamper the appetites and inflame 
the passions, that they have not leisure, and but seldom 
inclination, for the calm pursuits of literature, even in 
those cases where a liberal education was bestowed in 
youth, and which might be supposed to engender habits 
and a relish for study. 

The poor and the ignoble, again, are forced to ; pro- 
vide for themselves so early, and are doomed through 
the whole of life to such incessant toil, that their minds 
become brutish and obtuse, dead to all the finer feelings, 

9. n 9 



204< ON THE ADVANTAGES NO, 

and insensible in a great measure to the charms of mor- 
al excellence. Their condition naturally' begets servil- 
ity and low cunning, qualities most conspicuous in little 
and narrow minds, and is unfavourable to the production 
of dignified sentiments, of high and generous feeling, 
and of manly and independent conduct. Their pro- 
vince is to perform the low and vile drudgeries of life, 
and these require a mind as low and as vile. Reading 
and reflection among this class are extremely rare, and 
such of them as can read, reap thence little profit from 
an incapacity to seize and comprehend the views of the 
author. Hence their time is divided between labour 
and sluggish inaction. Their ideas are few, indistinct, 
and perplexed. They follow rather the instincts arid 
propensities of their nature, than guide themselves by 
the maxims of reason, or the dictates of conscience. It 
is lamentable to think that poverty has this tendency to 
corrupt and degrade human nature. 

In the middle station of life, virtue and orderly 
conduct are most commonly to be met with. It is here 
that the human character rises to its utmost height and 
unfolds its loveliest blossoms. This state is not only 
removed at an equal distance from the temptations in- 
cident to poverty and wealth, but it fosters those habits 
which enable us to resist them. This strength of mind 
and self-control, are to be ascribed in a great meas- 
ure to that portion of knowledge, which is shared a- 
mong the individuals of this class. They are the most 
enlightened, and therefore the most virtuous part of 
the community. In this soil, all the graces that adorn 



XIX. OF LITERATURE. 205 

and distinguish the human race, propagate with the 
most ease, and vegetate with the most luxuriance. 
Here they are indigenous plants, and need little culture, 
besides clearing the ground of weeds, to give them 
room to spread and ripen. Reading and reflection are 
the refreshing dews, which fall into their bosom and 
give them their richest fragrance and their finest tints. 

In the last place, knowledge, the result of literature, 
is the only quality, which in every stage of society gives 
dignity and respectability to the character. 

Nothing is more apt to raise our wonder than the 
opposite qualities, which in different ages of the world 
have procured the respect of mankind. These, howev- 
er wide of each other in their nature, all agree in one 
common character, to wit, their subserviency or useful- 
ness to the existence and happiness of the community 
in the state of improvement at which it had then arriv- 
ed. In savage life, a fierce courage and unconquerable 
patience under suffering, are the virtues most highly 
commended, and to the cultivation of which all their 
discipline is directed. As society advances, and is grad- 
ually polished from this rudeness, the military virtues 
are chiefly held in esteem, and almost engross the ad- 
miration of the multitude. In the most flourishing pe- 
riods of the Grecian history, this seems to have been 
the point which the Society had reached. All the males 
were bred to the use of arms: all their amusements and 
exercises were subsidiary to the art of war. To fight 
the battles of their country even in the lowest ranks, 
so far from being accounted mean or ignoble, was deem- 



^206 ON THE ADVANTAGES KO, 

ed the highest honour, and from this, except in cases 
of the greatest emergency, all the slaves were excluded. 
Riches, in this stage, were not sought after with avid- 
ity, but on the contrary, poverty was courted as render- 
ing men more independent of things external. In pro- 
portion, however, as the arts which minister to luxury 
are carried to perfection, this state of things passes 
away, and a new sera arises, in which commerce engages 
the attention, and calls forth all the energy of the com- 
munity. Wealth then constitutes the principal char- 
acter of distinction. Men, studious of their ease, de- 
volve the duties of the soldier upon the meanest and 
lowest of the people, and the ranks of the army become 
the refuge of beggary and disappointment. Courage, 
though still elevated among the virtues, holds only a 
subordinate place, and wars are undertaken solely for 
the acquisition of territory, or the extension of trade. 
Wealth now forms the object of universal pursuit, and 
in the attainment of it, every energy of mind and body 
is strained. 

It is curious to remark, that notwithstanding this 
perpetual change in the leading qualities accounted 
honourable among mankind, knowledge invariably con- 
fers dignity and respect, not in all the stages to the 
same extent, yet enough in each to make it an object 
worth attaining. In that high state of cultivation in 
which we now are, it sets forward juster pretensions to 
deference than it could challenge in the earlier and ruder 
ages, and these, from the general refinement, are more 
readily acknowledged. No man can be truly respecta- 



XIX, OF LITERATURE. 207 

ble now who is ignorant. Titles, rank, or opulence, 
may throw a false and transient lustre round a charac- 
ter in itself contemptible, and catch the inconstant 
admiration of the silly crowd, but he who covets and re- 
ceives the homage of the heart must possess intrinsic 
qualities, a well informed judgment, and a penetrating 
understanding. These at all times are estimable, and 
lay the only sure basis of respectability. 

After all this reasoning, one must think it won- 
derful that in a country like this, an idea has sprung up, 
anions not a few, that literature and a taste for reading- 
are incompatible with the habits, and are a drawback 
on the success of the Man of Business. 

I will readily allow, that if he turn his attention 
so exclusively to books, as to occupy in their perusal 
that time which should be deemed sacred to the count- 
ing-room ; or if, while in the counting-room, his 
thoughts are wandering after philosophical subjects, and 
not fixed and riveted on his affairs, such a taste, so 
improperly and unseasonably indulged, must be ex- 
tremely prejudicial to his interest, and merit the most 
unqualified reprobation. His transactions must needs 
be carelessly and hastily performed, his accounts will 
be irregular and confused, and his whole business -want, 
that arrangement and masterly skill, which alone can 
command success. To call such a one a man of business 
is a perversion of language, and were the prejudice, 
which I am attacking, extended no farther, it should 
meet with the most lenient castigation. 

But a prejudice exists among some against reading 



^08 ON THE ADVANTAGES SO. 

in general, and they would interdict the merchant from 
holding any commerce with polite and elegant litera- 
ture. This opinion goes in direct opposition to an es- 
tablished, but trite remark ; that the powers of the 
mind, as well as those of the body, acquire strength 
from exercise. If the intellectual faculties be not cul- 
tivated, and that too with constant and unwearied in- 
dustry, in vain would we expect them to be active and 
vigorous. The mind must remain in its natural state, 
perhaps a strong and fertile soil, but impoverished and 
deformed with the rank exuberance of weeds. Nothing 
tends so much to call forth the native energies of the 
soul, and to give them free and liberal scope as the pur- 
suits of literature. A taste, then, for these pursuits, is 
the best and most effectual means of opening and ex- 
panding the mental powers, and ripening them to full 
perfection. The question then is drawn within a nar- 
row compass. Can the Man of Business, unimproved 
by study, and unenlightened by general knowledge, 
succeed better than he, who has been at pains to strength- 
en his memory, to improve his capacity, and to enrich 
himself with all the stores of ancient and modern learn- 
ing? It is impossible. The first is necessarily ignor- 
ant, narrow-minded, and incapable of embracing large 
views of things. The second must, from his superior 
knowledge, be able toavail himself of innumerable advan- 
tages, and to seise all the contingent circumstances that 
may, in any wise, advance his fortune. He can descry 
evils at a greater distance, adopt more prudent and ef- 
fectual precautions, discriminate with more nicety, and 



XIX. OF LITERATURE. 209 

look forward to future events with a sagacity, that 
seems more nearly allied to the foresight of inspiration, 
than the deductions of the understanding. His con- 
ceptions are vast and comprehensive ; and, disdaining to 
follow the beaten track of ordinary mortals, he strikes 
out a new path, prosecutes it with the ardour of genius, 
and seizes the golden prize. There is, however, a 
great and imminent risk attending all these extraordin- 
ary efforts of first rate minds. Conceiving that every 
thing can be accomplished by the mere dint of intellect, 
and that talents can extricate from the most embarrassed 
situations, they fearlessly rush into hazardous specula- 
tions ; and, as no human ability can regulate and con- 
trol the tide of events, they are not unfrequently 
overwhelmed with disasters. This only proves, that 
to insure success in business, other qualifications are 
requisite than intellectual ability ; but it is still con- 
tended, that intellectual ability, aided and accompan- 
ied with the other proper qualifications, has a better 
chance of succeeding, than the dulness of the uninform- 
ed and plodding drudge, whose imagination never 
strayed beyond his counter, and whose calculations 
have been all along confined to pounds, shillings, and 
pence. Reading, and the study of erudition, sharpen 
all the capacities of the mind, and render them fitter 
instruments in the hands of the merchant, for rearing 
the structure of his fortune. The mental capacities 
may here not unaptly be compared to the irons of ma- 
sonry. To forward the work, and give it its highest 
polish, these require a sharp edge, and how solicitous 



£10 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 

soever the artificer may be to hasten on and adorn 
the building, his cares and exertions will be inefficacious, 
or at least less successful, if he be not provided with 
the necessary and proper tools. So, in business, that 
man will be found to succeed best, who is gifted with 
the choicest parts, and who has bestowed due pains on 
their improvement. L. A. 



No. XX. 

" Review them and adore I Hear the loud voice 
" Of Wisdom sounding in her works ! Attend 
" Ye sons of men! ye children of the dust, 
" Be wise, — observe a Providence in all." 
Dr Ogilvie's Providence, B. III. v. 1018-21-1069- 

THE works of Nature are possessed of characters, 
calculated to produce strong and various impressions on 
the human mind. Their effect is not restricted to time, 
or place ; but reaches to all ages past, present, and fu- 
ture, and to all nations, however much diversified by 
laws, institutions, or religious rites. They speak a 
language universally understood, and distinctly audible 
in the ear of Reason. By them we are led to that most 
Important and first of all truths ; that a Divine Intelli- 
gence must have forever existed, who disposed their 
parts, and rendered them subservient to each other, 
and who bestowed order and harmony on the whole. 



XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 211 

To this conclusion we are conducted, neither by a chain 
of argument, nor by the influence of early and imbib- 
ed prepossessions, but by an irresistible necessity im- 
pressed on our understanding by the hand of our Maker. 
That every effect must have a cause, is one of those 
self-evident and eternal axioms, which no reasoning- 
can either establish or overturn, and which is readily 
and promptly assented to, whenever the terms that ex- 
press it, are clearly apprehended. It borrows no evi- 
dence from any other quarter, but shines by its own 
internal light. 

There are also certain qualities belonging to the 
material world, which strongly affect our Powers of 
Taste, and which give rise to what is commonly called 
the Pleasures of the Imagination. 

The vault of heaven, the expansion and incontrol- 
able swell of the ocean, the lofty precipice, the roar of 
the cataract, of the storm, and of the thunder, excite in 
us emotions of the sublime. The lustre of the sun, 
the mellow light of the moon, and the glimmering of 
the stars ; the soft music of birds, the brilliancy of their 
colours and the elegance of their shapes ; the delicate 
and graceful structure of flowers, with their rich and 
inimitable tints ; all these conspire to delight us with 
their beauty. Every object in nature, though possess- 
ing no character that could entitle it to be classed with 
the sublime or the beautiful, yet, if unknown, pleases 
by its novelty. In this manner, the Author of Nature 
has invested all his works with a splendid but simple 
drapery to charm the eye of the beholder, and to make 



212 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 

ail the senses inlets of pleasure. This is, perhaps, the 
most conspicuous and incontrovertible mark of his 
goodness, which is "exhibited in his workmanship. In 
most other instances his beneficence seems directed to 
some useful or necessary end : here it is gratuitous, and 
exerted for no other purpose than to open up sources 
of innocent and pure enjoyment to his sensible creatures. 

While the Creation thus addresses the Understand- 
ing and the powers of Taste, it holds a language no less 
intelligible to our moral nature ; and it is in this view 
only that I mean to consider it in the following specula- 
tion. 

That I may not lead the reader into too wide a field 
of inquiry, I shall premise, that although the goodness, 
the wisdom, the power, and the majesty of the Deity, 
be written legibly throughout all, even the minutest and 
most insignificant, of his works ; still these characters 
may be traced in some, more visibly than in others, and 
certain parts of the material world may be selected, as 
affording the most decisive proofs of his benignity, of 
his intelligence, or of his greatness. In conformity to 
this general observation, it may be remarked, that the 
demonstrations of the divine wisdom and goodness are 
chiefly drawn from what is discoverable on our own 
planet. It is there we see the wonderful adaptation of 
means to ends, the profound and complex contrivances 
which Nature resorts to, in order to bring about her 
kind and beneficial purposes, and the unrivaled skill 
she displays in the structure of animals, in fitting their 
organs to their modes of life, and in the number and 



XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 213 

variety of their propensities and instincts. A minute 
analysis of the human body alone, lays open more art 
and contrivance than do all the machines invented by 
the united ingenuity of ages ; and, in consequence, fur- 
nishes to our limited understanding the best and most 
ample evidence of the wisdom of its Framer. It is also 
from the earth that we are to gather the principal proofs 
of his goodness. This is the proper sphere of our ob- 
servation. We can mark the care he has taken to pre- 
serve the different species of living creatures, the many 
sources of pleasure he has prepared for them, the abun- 
dant and liberal subsistence which he constantly furnishes 
to gratify their appetites, and to supply their wants. 
We feel also that goodness exerted in our own behalf; 
in our pleasurable sensations, in the enjoyments of 
society, and even in the gay and fantastic illusions of 
hope. 

But the omnipotence and majesty of the First Cause, 
though perceptible on our Earth, in the ponderous 
masses of rocks, in the howling of the tempest, and in 
the stroke of the lightning, are better collected from 
the contemplation of the Heavens. Astronomy unveils 
such wonders about the distances, the magnitudes, the 
revolutions of the Planets, and gives such magnificent 
ideas relative to the immensity of space, and the remote- 
ness of the fixed stars, that we are thrown into amaze- 
ment, and feel ourselves impressed, as moral beings, with 
the grandeur of the prospect. A survey of the Heav- 
ens, as the mighty theatre where the majesty and 
power of the Divinity are most strikingly exhibited. 



214 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 

teaches us lessons friendly to the interests of virtue, 
and which may be nearly all comprised under the four 
following divisions. 

First, we ought to regard the Framer of the uni- 
verse with sentiments of the most profound awe and 
veneration. When the soul turns towards the Deity 
as an object of research, it strains all its capacities to 
form some faint notion of his infinitude, but finds itself 
unequal to the undertaking. The immensity of space in 
which he resides, and the eternity of his duration, over- 
whelm with astonishment, and require a vastness of com- 
prehension, of which our faculties, limited and imper- 
fect as they are in the present state, are incapable. We 
become lost in the contemplation of a Being so supreme- 
ly great, and return in despair, in order to recruit our 
strength, which has been exhausted in the fruitless in- 
quiry. But, if we be solicitous that our ideas should 
rise and approximate as nearly as possible to the great 
original, the study of the celestial phenomena will won- 
derfully assist us. By reflecting on the mighty circles 
which the planets describe, and the ages, which, accord- 
ing to some, have been consumed in the transmission 
of light from the remoter stars, the extent of the Crea- 
tion bursts in upon the imagination, and inspires thoughts 
of genuine sublimity. Musings of this kind, indulged 
in the silence and darkness of the night, when the sens- 
es are unsolicited by external objects, form an instruc- 
tive and delightful entertainment. The mind, quitting 
the body with which it is encumbered, mounts on the 
wings of fancy into the fields of space. It looks down 



XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 215 

upon the Earth which it has left, and sees its vast cir- 
cumference shrinking gradually into a point. It follows 
the wandering stars in their courses, or outflies them 
at pleasure. It measures the zodiac with one wide 
circuit. Leaving the planetary system behind : it shoots 
into the regions of the stars. It surveys the opaque 
bodies which revolve around them, and whose reflected 
light has never traveled to human sight. It examines 
their inhabitants, their functions, their manners of life, 
their pursuits, their pleasures. Still soaring on a bold 
pinion, it arrives at length on the confines of the Crea- 
tion. It looks into the trackless, immeasurable void, 
and involuntarily shudders. It passes the brink, and 
adventures onward, wrapt in the thickness of darkness. 
Here, however, it is soon bewildered ; and, retracing 
its course, revisits the region illuminated by the glory 
of the creation, After a slow and steep descent, it a- 
lights on the terrestrial globe, improved and transport- 
ed with the excursion. He, whose imagination can 
carry him into so boundless and delightful a ramble, 
naturally thinks on the majesty of that Being who cal- 
led into existence these unnumbered worlds, and upholds 
them in unerring order. It is at this moment that the 
divine character rises in all its greatness and fills us 
with reverential awe. How irresistible must be his 
power, how diffusive his goodness, how inconceivable 
his wisdom, who reared and sustains a structure so 
splendid and glorious ! 

I very much admire that article of the Jewish re- 
ligion, which prohibited the use of this sacred and ador- 



216 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 

able Name, even in their rites and devotions, and which 
esteemed it too holy to be pronounced by the lips of 
mortals. Such a restriction served very much to beget 
that fear and devout respect, which I am recommending, 
and which is so becoming in creatures dependent, as 
we are, on his bounty, and removed at such an infinite 
distance from his perfections. This peculiarity of that 
ancient religion reflects a strong, and were our judg- 
ments not warped by the prevalence of custom, a de- 
served censure on the frequency with which that name 
is used in all the theological tracts throughout Chris- 
tendom. Sermons, controversial writings, catechisms, 
and even spelling books, are crowded almost a^ profuse- 
ly with it, as with the conjunctive particle and. I shall 
not determine how far the indecent irreverence of this 
practice has facilitated the progress of impiety, and given 
rise to the modern vice of swearing, by early habituating 
our ears to a sound, which certainly merits a more 
solemn gravity of pronunciation. A child no sooner 
begins to learn his syllables, than the name of the First 
Cause, and all the perfections that belong to him, are 
laid to his hand, as materials to further his advance- 
ment, when terms of unimportant meaning would con- 
fessedly answer the same purpose. Were a foreigner, ig- 
norant of our manners, stationed at such a distance from 
a country school-room, as that every word of a sentence 
could not be distinctly heard, but only such as were 
uttered with greater emphasis, this sacred appellation 
would be so often repeated, that, joined with the con- 
fusion and din. he would be at a loss to know whether 






XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 317 

or not the voices proceeded from an assembly of de- 
mons. I am aware that this is defended on the plea of 
early inculcating the principles of our holy religion, but 
it belongs to the guardians of the public morals to con- 
sider how far this pious profanation is not the secret 
cause of our ears being shocked in society so often with 
oaths and imprecations. 

There have been men no less distinguished for phi- 
losophical research than for true piety, and whose lives 
were an ornament to their country, who never allowed 
themselves to make use of the name of God but in cases 
of the utmost solemnity, and even then ushered it in 
with a marked falling of the voice and a subsequent 
visible pause : so much were they penetrated with a 
sense of the reverential feeling due to their Creator. 

'Such instances of piety should put to the blush the 
daring effrontery of some who fear not on the most tri- 
vial occasion, (if it may be permitted to borrow religious 
phraseology) to take the name of God in vain. This 
is an expedient usually resorted to, by fools and cox- 
combs, to make the multitude and their inferiors stare, 
and give to themselves a fancied importance. Little 
and vain minds, who have nothing to elevate them a- 
bove the crowd, that is valuable in itself or estimable 
by mankind, torture their ingenuity to find out some- 
thing by which they may attract notice and rise above 
the common level ; and, as they despair of reaching 
that enviable height in the direct path of honourable 
exertion, they seek distinction from their vices and 
profanity. Swearing, however, has of late become as 
voi*. i. 2 s 



~18 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO, 

unfashionable as it is impious, and it ha3 retired, in a 
great measure, from the gay world and sought a hid- 
ing-place among the worthless rabble. It would be a 
fruitless labour to reason against this vice in an argu- 
mentative form, because they who, in the paroxysms 
of passion or under the influence of any sudden and 
violent emotion, suffer the name of the Almighty to 
escape their lips in an irreverent manner, condemn 
themselves on the return of reflection ; and they again, 
who habitually abuse it are so effectually entrenched 
behind their ignorance as to be inaccessible to argument, 
You may shame, but can never argue, such men out 
of their impiety. 

In the second place, it is matter of pious gratitude 
and joy, that amidst the immensity of the works of God 
we, the inhabitants of this planet, are neither forgotten 
nor neglected by him. 

Were it possible to train up a reasonable being till 
he had reached the maturity of his faculties, without 
making him acquainted with the first principles of na- 
tural religion, and then, at once, lay before him the 
stupendous greatness of the Universe, and inform him, 
at the same time, that all these revolving worlds, with 
their endless productions and animals, were under the 
superintendence and management of one directing Mind, 
who could so distribute his attention and his energy, 
as to keep the magnificent machine in motion, without 
disorder, confusion, or irregularity, he would listen 
with an incredulous ear to a doctrine so sublime and 
mysterious. Such an effort of intelligence fills the im- 



XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 219 

agination with astonishment, as it so vastly transcends 
the compass of the human mind, which can only turn 
itself to one object at a time, and be occupied with one 
train of ideas. It is from comparing the Divine mind 
to the human, that we ever harbour a mistrust of Pro- 
vidence : for the omniscience of God effectually secures 
us from being disregarded amid the multitude of objects 
which call for his protection. While it is our duty to 
repress all such unbecoming suspicions of his paternal 
care, we ought not to banish from our thoughts our en- 
tire and perpetual dependence on him. We are too apt 
io overlook all those blessings which result from the re- 
gularity of the laws of nature ; and, forgetting the 
First Cause, to satisfy ourselves with tracing the secon- 
dary causes that produce them. We multiply experi- 
ments without end, to discover the secret contrivances 
which the Deity has adopted to work upon matter, and 
the investigations are laudable and advantageous to the 
progress of knowledge ; but we should go a step farther, 
and indulge feelings of devotion to that incomprehensi- 
ble Agent who has employed his power and his wisdom 
in subserviency to his goodness. We should be espe- 
cially thankful that the general comfort and convenience 
of the inhabitants of this planet, which we partake of, 
and which depend on its daily and annual motions, have 
been consulted with a care and exactness which demon- 
strate that the Divine attention is not distracted by the 
multiplicity of its interests. 

The vicissitude of day and night arises from what 
is called the diurnal motion of our Earth. In the 



220 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 

course of twenty-four hours, the sun illuminates and 
cheers every part of its surface in regular succession by 
its own simple turning round its axis. Thus one half 
is alternately in the light, and the other in the shade. 
The day time is the season of labour and activity, the 
darkness invites to sleep and repose, by which our ex- 
hausted powers are refreshed and invigorated. The 
constitution of Man and the other animals is fitted for 
this alternation of night and day. Neither we, nor they, 
could support a long and uninterrupted series of exer- 
tion, without impairing the strength and health of the 
body, and when we attempt to urge nature beyond cer- 
tain limits, she corrects us for the violence, first of all 
by lassitude, and should we not relax, she increases the 
pain of further efforts till it become intolerable. This 
constitutes a natural check to the eagerness of human 
passions, and it is seconded by the periodical return of 
darkness, which necessarily interrupts the bustle of busi- 
ness, and produces that stillness which entices to rest. 
Nature here acts the part of a kind and indulgent nurse, 
to her children. She extinguishes the light of day, 
that all external objects may be shut out which allure 
the senses, and then imposes silence on the Creation 
that their sleep may be spund and undisturbed ; thus 
drawing, as it were, the curtains of night around their 
retirements. 

The expedient fallen upon, to promote vegetation 
and to provide food for man and beast, is not less won- 
derful, and is effected by another motion of this Planet 
around the Sun. This by means of the obliquity and 



XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 221 

parallelism of its axis, causes the seasons in that unde- 
viating order which they have observed since the origin 
of things. While the northern hemisphere is enjoying 
the influences of summer, winter reigns in the southern, 
and when the latter, in its turn, is visited by the gen- 
ial heats, the former languishes and decays. By this 
means, vegetation and consequent plenty, travel from 
the one pole to the other, and furnish subsistence, to all 
the tribes of animals. 

These two motions go on so steadily, that the at- 
tention is never drawn either to themselves, or to the 
benefits we derive from them. The interchanges of 
day and night, and the rotation of the seasons, are 
phenomena, so familiar to us from our earliest infancy, 
and so incorporated and blended with all our ideas, that 
our gratitude seldom rises to the First Cause for estab- 
lishing these beneficent appointments, and for preserv- 
ing them without the smallest irregularity. Were they, 
however, disturbed, the confusion they would occasion, 
would be incalculable ; and were they discontinued, all 
living creatures must perish. 

I further remark, that the contemplation of the 
Heavens naturally leads to humility, and suggests views 
which, when justly apprehended, kill in us the seeds of 
vanity and self-conceit- 

When man compares himself with the lower animals 
in the acuteness of his sagacity, in the number of his 
inventions, or in the compass and strength of his powers, 
he must be sensible of his superiority, and perceive that 
many gifts and endowments are conferred upon him, 



222 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 

which exalt his nature above theirs. And when he car- 
ries on the comparison between himself and many of 
his own species, he cannot often shut his eyes against 
a similar conclusion ; especially, if he should happen to 
possess intrinsic qualities, or the adventitious circum- 
stances of birth and fortune to which they have no just 
title. Such views, in a well informed and regulated 
mind, beget only a proper sense of its own dignity and 
merit, feelings nowise incongruous with virtue ; but in 
others, they foster a groundless and insufferable elation 
of spirit which appears in every word and action. This 
passion, which is named pride, or vanity, according to 
the objects on which it rests, is always the failing of 
little and contracted souls, who are incapable of stretch- 
ing their thoughts to those wider and higher inquiries 
that teach us our proper station in the scale of being. 
" O Man," says an Eastern sage, " if thou wantest an 
•*' antidote against pride, raise thine eyes to the Firma- 
" ment. Compare thyself with the angels who surround 
« the throne of God, and learn how little thou art. 
« Thy understanding is dark and limited, ever falling 
** into errors, the least of which is not surely this high 
" opinion of thyself. Thy body, which thou deckest 
" with every ornament thy fancy can invent, what is it ? 
^ The instrument, but also the incumberance of thy no- 
" bier part, which, before thou canst reach the skies, 
" must be dropt and thrown aside, to putrify and moul- 
" der in the earth from which it sprung. The wealth 
" of which thou boastest, is foreign to thee. It be- 
'-' longed to others before it was thine, and will again 



XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 223 

" pass into other hands. Practise then humility, for it 
« becomes thy state. Pride was not made for man." 

I am very much of the same way of thinking, with 
this philosopher, that a survey of the Heavens, and 
more particularly as they are illustrated by modern dis- 
covery, is wonderfully calculated for the purpose of 
rooting out vanity and self-importance, and am satisfied 
that any one who turns his attention to these studies, 
sees the littleness of man, and the insignificancy of his 
grandeur in a much stronger light than they ever ap- 
peared to him from any other reflections. The human 
intellect, which embraces so great a range of ideas, and 
can investigate so many profound subjects, labours un- 
der an acknowledged incapacity in most of the inquiries 
connected with the celestial phenomena. Newton first 
opened the path into these regions, which have sincebeen 
successfully trodden by many of his illustrious followers ; 
and the discoveries, which have been brought to light by 
their joint efforts, have exceeded all reasonable belief : 
yet much still remains unaccomplished, and must neces- 
sarily remain so from the imperfection of human pow- 
ers. Astronomy opens a prospect so vast, that the eye 
while it examines minutely whatever is within the 
sphere of its vision, discerns in the spacious circumfe- 
rence around it, objects fading in the distance, which it 
can never explore. 

If the pride of understanding be humbled by these 
inquiries, they no less effectually repress that conse- 
quence which we are so apt to assume, from our pos- 
sessions in money or lands. To a superior intelligence 



224 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 

all our contentions about wealth, must appear as frivo- 
lous as the struggles of these diminutive creatures, 
the ants do to us, about a grain of barley. And when 
the soul, in a future and more advanced stage of her 
progress, looks back upon the cares and anxieties, which 
occupied and vexed her in the present world, she will 
feel humiliation at their emptiness not unlike that of 
the sage, who, in the manhood of his powers, cannot 
without a blush recollect his marbles and playthings. 
The importance of worldly things depend entirely on 
their proximity. They press upon our vision, and their 
proportions seem vast and gigantic, just as the small 
particle of dust, which obstructs the progress of an in- 
sect, is magnified by its microscopic eye into a mountain. 
Remove them only to a sufficient distance, contem- 
plate them from an exalted station in the heavens, and 
our mansions, our cities, our private property, and our 
national territory, dwindle into nothing, and are scarce 
perceptible on the surface of the earth. Elevate the eye 
still higher, and the earth itself appears only a luminous 
point shining among the stars. I know not where 
these thoughts are better illustrated than in the dream 
of Scipio, handed down to us by the Roman Orator. 
P. Cornelius Scipio, having been carried in a vision to 
the Heavens, met with Africanus, who lifted to him 
the veil of futurity, and shewed him the principal e- 
vents of his life. These, notwithstanding their splen- 
dor, were to be attended with much personal danger 
from the impious hands of hi« relatives. In order to 
inspire him with fortitude to meet the consummation 






XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 225 

of his fate, his heavenly instructor addresses him ; 
*< But that you may be, O Seipio ! the more eager to 
Xl save the Republic, know, that a certain place in hea- 
" ven, where the good enjoy everlasting life, is allotted 
" to all those, who preserve, assist, or aggrandize their 
" country. For societies of men bound together by 
" laws are a pleasing object to the Divinity, whose tem- 
" pie you now behold. Practise justice and piety, 
" therefore, that you may, after death, open a path 
4i hither for yourself, and be admitted into the company 
*< of those, who inhabit this region. 1 ' It was, says Sei- 
pio relating his dream, a belt of the most splendid 
whiteness, called, according to the Greeks, the Milky 
Way, from which all other celestial things appeared in 
my sight very bright and wonderful. I saw stars, not 
discernible from the earth ; and the magnitudes of all 
the heavenly bodies exceeded my conjecture. That 
satellite which is farthest from heaven, and nearest 
to earth, and which shines by a borrowed light, was 
least of them all. From this height, " the Earth itself 
** seemed to me so small, that I blushed for the insigni- 
« ficant extent of the Roman Empire, which touched 
* ( its surface as a mere point." 

Such suggestions evince the madness and folly of 
ambition, and teach us, that to be elevated above mea- 
sure with our own paltry possessions, or our national 
grandeur, can only be the weakness of a mind, which 
cannot enlarge its views, to take in the Universe at a 
glance. We are by no means, the big consequential 
beings, that we so often figure in our own imaginations. 
vol. i. 2 P 



226 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 

Neither we ourselves, nor our mightiest works, are per- 
ceptible to a spectator placed in any of the stars ; and 
the pyramids of Egypt no more affect the rotundity of 
the Earth, than the minutest atom, visible in the solar 
ray, would that of a common terrestrial globe. If 
I recollect right, it was, after looking up to the hea- 
vens framed by the fingers, and ordained by the power 
of the Almighty, that David breaks out into this noble 
and energetic strain of interrogation. " What is man 
that thou art mindful of him ? or the son of man that 
thou shouldst visit him ?" 

Lastly, the contemplation of the Heavens, furnish- 
es a twofold argument in behalf of immortality ; first, 
from the extent of the human powers, and next, from 
the immensity of the creation ; and consequently adds 
a powerful sanction to all the laws of virtue. 

Were we to see a plant growing in a certain cli- 
mate, or soil, which bore evident symptoms of being in 
an unfavourable situation for coming to maturity, we 
would naturally inquire, whether these symptoms were 
peculiar to this, as an individual, or were common to 
the class under which it was arranged. If we should 
find, that this was a single instance, we would at once 
conclude that the defect lay in the culture, and could 
be remedied by skilful management ; but on the con- 
trary, should we learn that all the plants of that tribe 
were equally sickly, and that with the utmost care in 
the rearing of them, they could not be brought to per- 
fect their fruit, we would draw a widely different con- 
clusion, and believe it to be an exotic, which required a 



*X. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 227 

more propitious atmosphere, and a warmer sun. This 
conclusion would be established beyond doubt, were we to 
discover that part of the earth where it naturally flour- 
ished in luxuriant vigour. The whole of this argument 
rests on experience ; for, so wisely has nature conducted 
all her operations in the vegetable kingdom, that she 
has formed no plant without allowing it a friendly 
region ; and, on the other hand, no region without 
beautifying and filling it with suitable plants. So firm- 
ly do we hold this opinion, that were we even to alight 
upon any herb or flower, which could not be brought to 
perfection in any climate, yet visited by man, we would 
seek for a solution of the difficulty, rather in the imper- 
fection of our knowledge, than in the suspicion that Na- 
ture had made aught in vain. The strength of this rea- 
soning will apply equally well to the animal as to the 
vegetable kingdom ; for, were any creature exhibit- 
ed, which refused every kind of food, and languish- 
ed under every tried mode of treatment, we would, 
notwithstanding, think, that the Universal Parent had, 
somewhere or other, provided it proper nourishment, 
and that in some latitude, it could exercise all its func- 
tions, and attain its full health and vigour. 

This mode of reasoning may be extended by analo- 
gy to the human soul. In the present state it cannot 
fully gratify its appetite for knowledge, nor exert all 
its powers, for two obvious reasons. The first is, the 
shortness of its existence, and the second, its distance 
from the objects which it ardently covets to explore, 
3y the time that the mind of man begins to feel and 

2f2 



~28 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 

exult in its capacities, and to direct them to varied and 
beneficial acquirements, he is interrupted in the midst 
of his progress, and hurried oft' the stage. But put the 
case, that he were even immortal, yet chained to this 
earth, still he could not investigate with advantage the 
works of the Creation, as they lie beyond his reach. 
From the motion of the great masses of matter, which 
revolve around him, he can find out the mechanical laws 
which guide them, their celerities, their magnitudes, 
the periods of their circuits, yet how scanty and imper- 
fect are these attainments, compared with what he could 
acquire, were he released from the body, which confines 
him as in a prison, and enabled to wing his way to the 
ethereal world. If a future life be not reserved for him, 
his intellectual capacity is an useless and unmeaning gift 
— an extravagant profusion of intellect ; for here he has 
neither time nor opportunity to store it with that unlim- 
ited variety of information, which can be collected from 
the universe, and which it is capable of containing. 

The same remark applies with equal force to hie 
moral powers. In childhood and youth, he is hurried 
on by the ardour and vehemence of his passions. He 
has not experienced their fatal consequences, nor acquir- 
ed that self-government, which results no less from dis- 
appointment in pleasure than from the high and posi- 
tive injunctions of morality. Before he can have fully 
seen and weighed the emptiness of earthly things, or 
fortified his virtue against temptation, his body fails, 
and hastens to dissolution. 

As our present condition, then, is unfitted for the full 



XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 229 

opening alike of our intellectual and moral powers, 
shall we not conclude, that the soul is a celestial plant, 
which here can neither strike its roots so deep and 
wide, nor shoot up to such a stately and commanding 
height, as is promised by the vigour of its germ ? It 
rises only to be a flowering shrub, dispensing, no doubt, 
the sweetest scents, and fair to the eye ; yet stunted in 
its growth, and marred in its beauty, by the boister- 
ousness of the elements that surround it. It most as- 
suredly shall be transplanted into a more fertile soil, 
and placed in a happier clime, that it may enjoy a seas- 
on long enough, to call forth all its beauties and ripen 
all its fruits. Yes : we know, that soil to be the uni- 
verse, and that season, eternity. With such a prospect 
its internal structure is developed, and it forms another 
confirmation of the wisdom, that pervades the divine 
handiwork. Its understanding is susceptible of endless 
progression in knowledge, and the universe can supply 
endless materials for inquiry. Here then is the same 
admirable adaptation of means to ends, which strike 
the eye on every survey of final causes. But were it 
not destined for immortality, its unblown and imma- 
ture faculties would be an enigma, that would foil ev- 
ery solution and must be accounted anomalous efforts 
of creative energy : a doctrine, too repugnant to unbi- 
ased reason, and derogatory from the perfection of the 
First Cause, to be ever generally or firmly received. 
Since Man, then, is made for immortality, he should 
cultivate every virtue that exalts his moral nature, and 
prepares him for this expected existence. J. M. 



230 ON THE MISCHIEVOUS TENDENCY 



No. XXI. 

" Father, there's an auld man on the green, 
The fellest fortune-teller e'er was seen : 
He tents our loofs, an' syne whips out a book, 
Turns o'er the leaves, and gi'es our brows a look ; 
Syne tells the oddest tales that e'er ye heard ; 
His head is grey, and lang and grey his beard." 

Gentle Shepherd, Act III. Scene II. Jenny loq. 

THERE are few desires in the human breast so ar- 
dent, and, in general, so ill-directed, as that of looking 
into futurity. Our hopes on the one hand, crowd the 
distant prospect with so many pleasing and interesting 
figures ; and our fears, on the other, conjure up such 
frightful and disagreeable objects, that we are natural- 
ly solicitous t» know, whether any, or all, of these 
illusions shall be realized. We are conscious of possess- 
ing in ourselves no first principles to regulate our con- 
jectures; and, without farther thought, surrender our 
judgments to the ghostly guidance of those, who are 
interested in deceiving and misleading us. The slight- 
est share of common sense might teach any man, that 
as he himself cannot foresee the event of the next mo- 
ment, all pretensions to instruct him, and draw aside the 
mysterious and impenetrable curtain, with which it is 
covered, must proceed either from knavery, or a dis- 
ordered imagination. So strongly, however, does this 
desire operate, that every pretender to the art is sure 



XXI. OF FORTUNE-TELLING. 231 

of meeting with encouragement, and collecting around 
him an ignorant, and eager multitude, who believe, 
and liberally pay for, his predictions. In looking over 
the history of the human race with an eye to this sub- 
ject, it is curious to remark, upon what different foun- 
dations the different systems of Divination have been 
constructed. In one age and country, men studied the 
planets, their motions, their conjunctions, their aspects ; 
and, from these, pretended to foretell the prosperous, or 
adverse events, which would arise in the course of one's 
life. These observations on the Heavens were carried 
to such a length, that they grew up into a science, 
and obtained credit with the wise and learned, a cir- 
cumstance that reflects no great honour on the boasted 
perfection of human reason. 

In the two most polished and enlightened nations 
of antiquity this folly broke out in a different direction ; 
and an order of priesthood was established to attend at 
the slaying of victims, and take the first holy look of 
their entrails. From the appearance of these, expedi- 
tions were undertaken, battles fought, war and peace 
determined on ; and, in a word, all important political 
measures were regulated, not by the calculations of 
prudence, but by the chances of a blind superstition. 

It is a very decisive proof of the advancement of 
the present age in real and useful knowledge, that none, 
who have gotten the benefit of a good education, are 
weak enough to countenance or credit such fooleries. 
All these have evanished along with the religions, which 
begat them, just as the vile vermin perish, when the 



232 ON THE MISCHIEVOUS TENDENCY No, 

putrid mass that bred and fostered them is removed. 
Among the vulgar in this country, however, there is still 
some little remnant of divination. There are pretenders, 
who give out, that, from the natural lines in a man's 
hand, or from the accidental arrangement of tea-leaves 
in a cup, they are able to dive into futurity ,- and there 
are people so grossly ignorant as to believe them. 

The Gipsies, who traveled over the whole of this 
island, and even over Europe, were accounted the most 
skilful adepts in the first of these arts, known by the 
name of palmistry. They subsisted partly by begging, 
and pilfering, but chiefly by telling fortunes. With a 
sly sagacious look they minutely examined the palm of 
the hand, then studied the features of the face, that 
they might catch the secret workings of the heart ; and, 
according as they wished to operate on the fears or 
hopes of their auditors, gave either a melancholy signi- 
ficant shake of the head, or burst into a loud broad 
laugh, before they opened the book of fate. Demos- 
thenes, amid all the lightnings of his eloquence, could 
not wield the passions of an Athenian assembly with 
half the dexterity, which this wretched vagrant crew 
exercised over those of the common people. This re- 
lic of ancient ignorance is now nearly put down from 
the extension of knowledge, and the juster views, that 
prevail every where. Even the race, that lived by it, 
is become extinct in this quarter, by betaking them- 
selves to useful employments, and being blended with 
the great mass of the population. A wandering beggar, 
indeed, is still now and then to be found, who, possessing 



XXI. OF FORTUNE-TELLING. 233 

more than ordinary penetration, and insight into human 
nature, sets up for a conjurer in his passing through 
some remote village, and lays open the secrets of all the 
inhabitants, who apply to him. 

This species of fortune-telling, however, is more rare- 
ly to be met with than that of readingcups. In every town 
and village throughout the country there are women of 
shrewd and sagacious minds, who earn a livelihood by 
this wretched trade, and keep a whole neighbourhood 
under contribution, by flattering and deceiving the 
maid-servants. No sooner is a simple girl drawn with- 
in this magic circle, than her fidelity to her master 
must be sacrificed to supply the demands, and gratify 
the avarice of one of those beldams. She is encouraged 
to purloin whatever articles she can most conveniently 
Say her hands upon, and they are all received from her, 
as the price of unfolding her future fortune. 

My ear was struck, a few nights ago, as I entered 
the lobby, with a very earnest conversation, carried on 
between two of the maids, relative to this subject. My 
curiosity was awakened, and I overheard such a tale 
of knavery, as few will believe could take place in this 
city. In a narrow lane towards the west end of the 
town, there lives, it seems, one of these old hags, vul- 
garly called spae-wives, who from her superior sagacity, 
or more extensive practice, has acquired a kind of fame 
in this. line. Her house is resorted to, by all silly girls, 
who either have sweet-hearts, or ardently wish forthenL 
She has an old tea-pot always ready, standing by the 
side of the fire, from the contents of which she q&k 



SSi ON THE MISCHIEVOUS TENDENCY NO. 

foretell every thing, that can arise in the course of a 
long courtship. If a young fellow become cross to his 
mistress, she can tame and soften him ; if cold, she can 
revive the flame. Her province even takes a wider 
range. When any thing is stolen or is amissing, she 
can give a description of the thief, or tell whereabouts 
it may be found. For these predictions or discoveries, 
she takes, I learned, no fees in money, but only such 
presents of apparel or food as every girl, that is dishon- 
est, can easily pilfer in her service. One of the maids., 
Betty, it seems, had been in the practice of consulting 
this sorceress, ever since she had become acquainted with 
a journeyman lad who paid his addresses to her. Of 
late he had become less frequent in his visits, and less 
particular in his attentions, and her jealousy had taken 
fire. The tea-leaves had long ago joined them as man 
and wife, and promised much domestic happiness, and 
a large and flourishing family. But unfortunately last 
night a rival appeared among them, and disturbed their 
usually lucky arrangements, who, she was told, would 
supplant her for a while in her lover's affections, unless 
some dextrous expedient was fallen upon to prevent it. 
This information confirmed all her suspicions and ex- 
cited all her hatred. The only thing awanting, and 
which Betty had very much at heart, was the name of 
this unknown fair one. The old hag refused this disco- 
very, until she should be presented with a stiver tea- 
spoon. This was an act of flagrant atrocity which the 
remains of Betty's good principles would not allow her 
to commit, and she was complaining to her confidant, of 



XXI. OF FORTUNE-TELLING. 235 

the cruelty of this requisition. It was now, I thought, 
high time for me to step forward and interpose. I for- 
tified her good resolutions, and endeavoured to unde- 
ceive her. She shed a flood of tears and expressed the 
deepest contrition. I learned the street and house 
where these unhallowed rites were practised, and urged 
on, perhaps by a blamable curiosity, I communicated 
the principal circumstances to a friend, and set out along 
with him in quest of adventures. As we approached 
the door, I observed, by the light of the lamps, three 
young women entering in company with each other. 
O pudor ! O audacia ! we could not resist the temp- 
tation of looking in, and listening at the window. Al- 
though obtained by stealth, the scene is worth descrip- 
tion. The beldam herself was seated at the corner of 
the fireside with her eyes towards the door, and her tea- 
pot, the instrument of so many charms, stood near her. 
She appeared to be turned of seventy, with a quick keen 
eye, but hard and withered features. Her customers 
she received with a civil motion of her hand, and beck- 
oning them to take chairs, she examined them with an 
inquisitive look. Two of them she addressed by name ; 
the third was a stranger, who had come to consult her 
on a very nice point in the management of her lover. 
Each drew out from their pockets the presents they had 
brought along with them for her reception. We saw her 
get a napkin, a piece of roast beef, and last of all the re- 
mains of a cold fowl. The tea-pot was now stirred and 
emptied partly into a cup. Unluckily I could not all 
this time perceive the faces of the girls, for their backs 

2 c 2 



236 ON THE MISCHIEF OF FORTUNE-TELLING. NO. 

were turned towards me, and thus lost the better ha.W 
of the pleasure, which this novel scene was capable of 
affording. When the cup was put in motion* they all 
bent forward, and eyed it with mute and deep attention. 
I could not distinctly hear the language which this in- 
famous woman used in addressing these infatuated fe- 
males, but I heard enough to rouse my utmost indig- 
nation, and to convince me that such places are proper 
subjects for the interference of the police. They are 
the nurseries of petty frauds, of criminal stratagems* 
and of a degrading superstition. 

It is distressing to think, that a human being can 
be found in this enlightened age so low in intellect, as 
to be imposed upon by such arts. What virtue can 
steeped tea-leaves possess to instruct us in futurity ? Will 
the Almighty unveil the next moment, and discover fu- 
ture contingencies to an old wicked worthless woman, 
when he has hidden them from the best and wisest of 
men ! I will not waste an argument on this head ; but 
I would caution all mistresses to keep a watchful eye 
over their servants, and, if possible, save them from 
such ruinous and corrupting debasement. 

MlSEMANTICUS. 



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